


The Age of Wolves

by Enochian_Joke



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Mental Instability, Not Thor: Ragnarok (2017) Compliant, POV Loki (Marvel), Paranoia, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29021502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochian_Joke/pseuds/Enochian_Joke
Summary: Loki sits on the throne of Asgard in the guise of Odin. Tormented by visions of the end of all things and his own paranoia Loki struggles with his identity, his purpose, as well as his role in the upcoming war. Meanwhile, the Mad Titan's reign ripples throughout the galaxy, the Avengers remain divided, and Death is coming to collect her dues.
Relationships: Hel | Hela & Loki (Norse Religion & Lore), Loki & Odin (Marvel), Loki & Thor (Marvel), Loki & Wanda Maximoff
Comments: 28
Kudos: 56





	1. The Hall, Entwined with Serpents

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Thor: Ragnarok rewrite, trailing into the events of Avengers: Infinity War. I was inspired to write my take on this because I do feel like the original timeline Loki deserves a bit more than he got in both movies.
> 
> Beta: the wonderful @wnnbdarklord <3 <3 <3

Loki sits on the throne in the guise of Odin. There's a dinner party of sorts in The Grand Hall below, delegates from various worlds milling about, their chatter a white noise to his ears. From so high up above he doesn't even feel like he's truly present, not when all the times before he'd been right down there with them.

Although, he supposes, even then he'd been away, hiding, even while he smiled as a prince should and shook hands or bowed, as a prince should.

He resists a sigh.

Before the dinner there was a meeting. Something is happening, not just in their nook of the galaxy, but everywhere. Loki pretended he didn't know exactly what, feigned the proper amount of concern even though he felt about ready to flee to his room and scream.

Hogun was there too, representing Vanaheim, and he is down there now, mingling with the masses in the dining hall. He didn't seem suspicious of him, as far as Loki could tell, but it never was so easy to say with him. His careful blank expression was always a thing of uncertainty for Loki, and is so now, especially when he catches a glance Hogun throws him.

Perhaps he is also pretending, Loki thinks idly, leaning his chin on his hand as perhaps a king shouldn't.

After all, if he is found out, as an impostor sitting on the golden throne of Asgard, Loki has no doubts that he would be killed on sight considering how tense things are.

Then again, with _his_ presence beginning to further rock the normally rocky waves of their universe, perhaps his death will come even sooner. Even still, Loki does not wish to ponder on such sour matters, not when he finally has what he always -

But no, that's not right either.

Hogun becomes lost to him in the crowd, but he spots the other three members of Thor's merry group of companions at the very end of the hall, speaking to each other in a tight-knit circle.

Loki pretends this doesn't bother him, that it hasn't bothered him any other time he's seen it.

Paranoia would not help him. Wouldn't help any of them.

And yet, like with most things lately, he can't shake off the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, of being seen.

And how funny too, that he would be so seen now, when he hasn't ever been properly seen before.

Loki resists another sigh.

 _You're acting like a child_ , he berates himself, leaning against the throne instead, so he doesn't appear as broken down as he feels. The Warriors Three are not looking at him, not really, but he can feel their gazes all the same etching into his back, burning with the knowing of what hides behind his glamour.

The boy beside him is looking at him too, when he thinks Loki isn't paying attention. It's just a servant, a nobody really, but his gaze burns the same.

This party won't end, Loki knows, not until everyone is passed out blind drunk. But that doesn't mean that the king can't leave early. At least, he thinks it doesn't. Back when he was down there and not up here, he'd always stayed late, together with Thor, drinking and laughing and pretending.

But not now.

Thor isn't here and he isn't Loki.

He can't leave, he realizes. He has even less choices now than he did before.

His skin burns and he feels himself sweat. Suddenly it appears as though every single pair of eyes in the great hall is on him, except that he is no longer an old graying man. He's one of the monsters they all can and will kill on sight, especially a lone one, a creature who has no one beside him.

He's short of breath, Loki realizes, and he freezes in his seat. The golden throne becomes terribly heavy, unbearably cold and hard and impossible to - 

_Oh, damn it._

The group below dances before his eyes in a blur of colorful motion. Their voices begin to sound distant, more so than before, as if there were layers upon layers between them and him.

He wishes it was so, he wishes he could hide, he wishes they didn't - 

"My king... "

He hears a voice, and it's the boy beside him. He doesn't know if he's moved, he doesn't know if they've seen.

He doesn't know anything.

"My king, are you alright?"

The voice breaks through clearer and Loki nods. What else is he to do? Admit to this boy that his king is weak? That it isn't even his king he is so concerned for?

"I'm fine," Loki manages, "I must simply be tired."

Is even this too much? Would Odin ever admit to being tired?

 _Of course he wouldn't_.

"Do you perhaps want some water, my king? Ale? You haven't had anything to drink."

Loki barely stops himself from gripping the arms of the throne in a vice grip to keep himself from floating. He must not reveal any more than he has.

Perhaps ale would help.

"Yes," Loki says, cutting off the beginnings of a thank you, "Bring me ale."

The boy does. He doesn't leave far, but Loki already feels better. He takes a moment to breathe, hopes still that nobody has noticed.

Except, of course, somebody has.

Loki finds him again, more easily so now, and he thinks for a moment that it is on purpose.

Hogun never was a man of many words, but his knowing stare could freeze even a Frost Giant. And it does so now, easily, though the stare does not last long. Loki fears he's been found, he fears he's going to be killed, he fears...

Oh, he just _fears._

Every day that he sits on this blasted throne he's afraid, every night that he manages to sleep he wakes up gasping in cold sweat having seen _his_ face in stark clarity, his hands around his throat. Every morning he regrets. Every afternoon he regrets.

He could have run.

He should have.

He should have hidden himself away from _him_ , from all of them.

_Why didn't I?_

"My king," The servant calls for him and hands him the ale.

Loki drinks, too fast, he thinks, but for every empty pint there's another one waiting. This servant is fast and efficient, not just in this, but in everything he does. Loki would feel tended to, cared for even, but he knows that this isn't for him.

None of this is for him.

When the long night finally breaks into early morning light and the hall empties, Loki closes his eyes and tries to breathe. But the air doesn't come. The Grand Hall is vast and it is open, and yet the air feels warm, much too warm.

He doesn't notice, doesn't hear through the blood rushing in his ears, until a familiar voice sounds.

_Too close._

"My king," Hogun says, bowing, "I would speak with you."

Loki opens his eyes, though he dares not look.

"I'm tired, Hogun," he says, in a raspy voice that is not his, "We will speak if you wish, later today."

Hogun doesn't leave. He appears thoughtful, if he appears as anything at all.

"My king, I'm afraid this matter can not wait," Hogun says, "It concerns your son."

 _Which one?_ Loki thinks bitterly as his heart skips a beat. It's about Thor, obviously, Loki reminds himself, feeling foolish.

The matter of Thor's disappearance is something only he, Sif, and The Warriors Three know about. Loki thinks they might have been talking about that earlier, and almost thanks himself for finally having a rational thought.

Then Hogun says what Loki so desperately wishes he didn’t.

"We've found him."

Loki stops himself short of demanding anything, instead forcing a pretense of cocern hidden under a careful layer of Odin's royal restraint.

"Where?" he asks, worried his tone of voice isn't right.

"Midgard," Hogun says, "But... he is not well."

"Speak plainly."

Hogun shifts, and his careful mask slips ever so slightly, "The death of his brother... " he tries, and it appears as if he doesn't quite know how to say it.

Loki urges him to speak in his mind, stops short of screaming.

"Loki's death seems to have had... an effect on him," Hogun says, "If I may, I think he needs you, now more than ever."

Loki knows what to say next.

"My son has hidden himself," Loki says, "He must not want to be found."

Hogun nods, looking down as he does and then back up to Loki, his gaze clear with purpose.

"I do not know the reason he would hide from you," Hogun says, "But united we are stronger, are we not, my king?"

There's something in his damn eyes, Loki thinks. His heart hurts for beating so loud, and he is sure now more than ever that Hogun somehow knows.

He knows.

"If Th... if my _son_ wishes to remain hidden, then he will remain hidden," Loki says through the stabbing pain in his heart, "Asgard stands strong without him, under its king."

Hogun does not argue and Loki doesn't expect him to.

"As you wish, my king," Hogun says instead, bowing.

He leaves, and the hall is empty. Truly empty, except of course for the servant.

Loki looks to his right. Like they always do, the servant pretends he didn't hear anything, that none of it concerns him at all. But Loki knows what the servant will do once he is dismissed.

He will go to the servant's quarters and he will talk. He will tell everyone what their king said and, if they think anything at all about it, their feelings will sow seeds that will grow and grow unbidden.

Outright dissent might be punishable, but common gossip isn't. If only rumors were less dangerous.

The king does not want to find his only son, Loki knows the servant will say.

His only true son, someone else will add.

He doesn't drink with his peers, his companions, his allies.

Their king is weak.

Their king is an impostor.

_Their king is a -_

"You are dismissed," Loki says, waving to the servant without looking at him.

It doesn't matter. He can't keep him by his side forever just to prevent gossip. That would be worse.

If things could get much worse than this.

Of course, Loki knows that things can always get so much worse.

***

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

Loki wakes up with a scream on his lips, smothered in his throat before it could be heard. Wide eyed, he looks around, tries to spot trouble, tries to spot them - 

But he can't see anyone.

The air is as warm as it was that morning, and Loki wonders if he's simply ill-suited to warm weather. Because it is warm, isn't it? The lack of air he's constantly feeling surely has an explanation beyond that which is most obvious.

He laughs, just a little, feeling his tense body relax a fraction, though a tightness in his chest remains.

It would be better, he thinks, if he was in his own room. This place, this achingly unfamiliar place, only feeds his fear, feeds his desire to flee. Even though it's warm, the room feels cold. It feels impersonal and dark, as if it hasn't been inhabited before and is barely habitable now.

It's just a room.

Just a room.

His mother's -

His father's -

It's _his_ room now.

Just as the throne is _his_.

Loki tries to find comfort in this, but he fails to. He's failed since he got it and he doesn't understand why he can't just be glad. Why must he always feel terrible, why must he always be so dissatisfied?

He would be bored even, with the gossip and the prattling and the meetings and the formal gatherings if he wasn't _so damn scared_ all the time.

If his heart doesn't slow down soon, Loki thinks dully, he might actually just die. There would be no need to cut him until he bled out, to smash his bones until they are dust, to squeeze his neck as if he...

His hands are on his neck before he can finish the thought.

Slowly, he pushes against his pulsing heartbeat, tightening his grip fraction by fraction, tries to convince himself that he is not terrified.

He's not.

He's Loki, damn it.

He's a master sorcerer.

He's a fighter.

He's a sur - 

He's a king!

He doesn't know what he is.

He lets his arms fall to his sides. Eventually, he gets up. He gets dressed and he stands in front of a large mirror, fixes his robe, stares at himself. Except it's not him, of course. Loki keeps his glamour even in the privacy of his quarters because he knows, better than anyone, that even the walls and closed doors in Asgard have eyes and ears.

Outstretching his arm so he can better see, he thinks of this old skin peppered in thin white hairs, looks at the spots forming with age, turns the hands around, this way and that.

And then, he tries to imagine _that_ color, the reality of his true body brought to light by an artifact he dares not touch. He's hidden it away, stashed it like a guilty thief, unwilling to see it again and yet unwilling to be parted from it.

The other thing is there too.

That thing that calls to him, that thing that will doom them all.

The color fades.

It wasn't the same. He can't bring forth the thought to create it better, can't bring himself to think of the moment when his whole life shifted and crumbled as if an army had ransacked his mind and crushed this tentative security he used to find in that he at least _looked_ somewhat like them, if he couldn't _be_ like them.

He tries to think, to make sense of his situation the best he can.

If Hogun knows, he's probably yet to tell anyone. His door hasn't been broken open, guards have yet to rush in and arrest him, he's yet to be killed.

And then Thor.

Loki wonders idly if Heimdall isn't helping Thor hide. Months ago, Loki found that Heimdall had escaped Asgard's prison, likely aided by a handful of Asgardian rebels. Already, Loki's reign has resulted in dissent and he wonders how to stop it, _if_ he can stop it.

Last time, he couldn't. There's no reason this time would be any different.

But Thor would need help. He was never so good at spells. Someone must be helping him.

Loki wonders if Thor will come back.

Loki wonders if Thor will kill him.

_You poor coward, as if he could. He may be stronger but you're better, so much better. You could snap your hands and divorce him of his head..._

"I can't," Loki says to his mirror self, "I... "

_You'd let him kill you?_

"He wouldn't kill me," Loki says, "He mourned for me. He forgave... "

_He forgave nothing! You're foolish to think otherwise. He said he'd kill you if you betrayed him, did he not?_

_And you did betray him, did you not? You could have told him you're alive, you could have been brave and faced your fate._

_But you didn't, did you?_

"I didn't want to be locked up," Loki says, feeling utterly pathetic, and he seems to agree with himself.

_Coward._

"It seemed like a grand plan at the time," Loki tries to justify himself to himself, realizing how stupid that is.

 _You've done this before_ , his own voice supplies, _back there._

Back there.

Loki knows solitude is madness. He's been taught well to fear it, and he always was such a good student.

"Is pain better than loneliness?" he asks himself, but his mirror self _is_ himself, and he doesn't respond.

He doesn't have to.

He knows that it is.


	2. The Leash May Break

Vera is a woman in her thirties, living alone in the big city. She works as a waitress to pay for college and in her free time she volunteers at the local home for the sick and elderly. She has struck a friendship with a lovely woman called Maria, the home’s head nurse. Maria is the kind of person who needs to see and know everything but will greet everyone who comes in as if they’re visiting her own home.

Vera likes Maria, most especially because she appreciates being appreciated in turn. Maria tells her often what a nice young woman she is to come here so often when most people would gladly turn a blind eye to those in need. Sometimes all they need is some quality company, Maria would say. They want someone to listen to them, she once said, for someone to hear them share their stories.

"Don’t we all?” Vera agreed, and Maria gave her another one of her warm smiles.

The streets of New York are very noisy, Vera thinks, walking close to the buildings to her left so she avoids greater crowds.

The smells too, they're very different. There's a distinct lack of greenery, the smell of damp earth and blooming flowers. Instead, there's a permeating scent of gas fueling their vehicles, a cloying scent of street vendor's plastic food and an assortment of strong perfumes.

She fixes her collar, tries not to appear so nervous.

She has chosen to volunteer on Wednesdays, and has been coming here for so long that it strikes her as irritating that she would still feel like this. Maria will be there, at least, and her presence will ground her.

"How was your weekend my dear?" Maria asks, already expecting her at the entrance.

"Oh, it was alright," Vera says, "I had a big party, lots of my friends came."

"That hardly sounds just alright," Maria says, wistful, "You know, in my day, I used to party all the time. Real wild beast I was."

She has no reason to disbelieve her, but she can't so easily imagine this short pudgy mild-mannered woman as a particularly wild beast, either.

Maria leads her to the common room.

He's already there.

He always is.

"If you need anything dear, just holler at me, okay?"

Maria always says this, and Vera always says she will but she never does.

This old home is an old place by itself; an old building halfway in ruin, housing people who have no one at all to take care of them. So close to the grave and yet they are here by themselves, left to die isolated.

Most humans might not see much value in dying in battle but this must be worse, she thinks.

The man sees her and smiles. She smiles back.

There's no reason to delay, so she moves to sit across from him. There's a chess board between them, as there always is. The man rearranges the figurines and motions for her to make the first move.

She doesn't want to make it, but she moves the pawn anyway.

"Thank you for visiting," the man says, "Nobody here can play as well as you do."

It's praise, as much as anything. She hates that it makes her warm, hates that it makes her want to play better.

He makes his move.

She sees what he's doing, but she decides to prolong the game as much as possible. She can't go back, not yet.

"My son used to beat me at games like this whenever we played," he offers, and she feels her hands shake.

"You played chess with your son?"

The man chuckles, "Not exactly. We had other games, similar games. I used to win when he was younger but … ah, he grew into an astoundingly bright man."

"How often did you play?"

"Not as often as I would have liked."

She considers this. She tries to remember what it felt like to live such a carefree life, what it felt like to sit down for a game of hnefatafl with a father whose eyes gleam with pride for their second son.

"My father never spent much time with me," she says, "He was... busy."

He gives her a crooked smile, barely visible underneath his beard, "I can't say I was much better. There was just... there was so much that needed to be done."

"What did you do, if I may ask? I forget."

"Oh," the man sighs, "I... well, I'm afraid I can't quite remember."

Her jaw tightens. She makes her move. She doesn't look up, all that exists are the cracked old figurines in dark brown and pale beige.

"You're a student, yes?" he asks and she nods, "Are you studying well?"

"I'm an excellent student," she says, "Everyone says so."

"Ah, good, that's good," the man says, his smile a bit wider, "It's important for young people to learn as much as they can."

"I used to love learning," she says, "I... when I was younger. I would read a lot. I wanted, I _needed_ , to know everything. People said… people would often tell me I was arrogant. Pretentious, they would say. Uptight."

The man chuckles, "Oh, my, those are quite the words to say to a young lady."

"Indeed," she says, "But they were right. Do you think the truth should hurt that much?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know," the man says, pondering his move as he seems to realize she means to prolong the game, "I believe the outside is an armor and it keeps one safe in life and in battle. But when one sheds that armor, what's inside their heart will be seen by those that deserve to see it."

She almost laughs. Almost.

"Wise words," she says, matching his move.

"I'm just an old man," he says, glancing up, "But there's experience that comes with age. Experience that is vital. No matter how much knowledge you have if you don't know how to use it properly then it's just facts, words, mere trivia. Knowledge needs purpose."

He makes his move, she makes hers.

She hates that he's right. She hates that she still hates him.

She hates that he makes her want to cry.

_Do you think I'm strong enough to fight what's coming?_

"Do you think I’m strong?”

She no longer sees the board. She hopes he doesn't notice.

"Strength is nothing, my dear girl," he says, "Without strategy."

He makes his move.

_Check mate._

"Oh, I’ve won," he says, "I’ve won!"

He lifts his arms up in glee, looks at the room and the few who cheer for him. She hears clapping, she hears joy.

She swallows her tears.

The man is so happy, so unbothered, it makes her want to grab his throat and squeeze the last lingering life out of his gleeful eyes. At the same time, she wants the man to tell her more of his son, more of his unbothered pride.

When Maria escorts them back to the man’s room for his afternoon nap, Vera lingers. She looks upon the one-eyed face of tyranny now in relaxed sleep and she closes her eyes while she weaves her damning magic.

***

Loki is in his room.

He pushed the curtains away to see the outside, to let the sunlight in. He hopes it will make the room less cold, but it doesn't.

There's color in it, but it all looks gray to him.

He's at the mirror again.

He thinks, he tries to, at least.

He doesn't have all of them yet, but he will come for them. He will come for him. Thor is on Midgard, but he doesn't know where. He should have asked Hogun, he should have played the role of a concerned father.

He shouldn't have been so afraid.

Loki turns his eyes away from the mirror, and he casts a spell. There's a person now, staring at him, waiting for him to tell it what to do.

"Find out what they know," he says, and the person nods.

He casts another spell and he's in the hallway now, tracing the person's steps. He sees the endless winding halls of Asgard's great fortress, passes by familiar rooms, hides behind familiar columns.

There are many servants passing by, staying delegates and their entourages. Nobody notices him because this person is not important. They are a shadow, a silent standing nothingness whose only purpose is to observe.

He doesn't know where they are but he hopes he'll find them soon. He hopes that, when he does, this would prove a strategy instead of a fool's errand.

In the end, he does find one of them.

Hogun walks with grace, stands tall and proud, stands in a way that Loki never truly could. Even in New York, perhaps especially then, his own back wanted to bow, his own knees wanted to buckle.

They want to buckle now.

He wants to plead, but he doesn't know whom he'd be pleading with.

Hogun is walking towards the garden, he realizes, and there, in the shadows of trees, stand Volstagg and Fandral. They look expectant, their brows twisted twins, and they wait. Hogun stands by them but he doesn't speak.

When she appears, Loki understands that they were waiting for her.

Sif stands tall too, she always has. Even when she was told she would never be good enough to join their army, when she was told that the Valkyries are dead and no longer needed, when she was told to know her place.

She did always know her place, Loki thinks bitterly, and her place was always in greatness.

"How's he doing?" Fandrals asks, and Loki's heart skips.

Sif shrugs, though her expression is similarly worried, "He's alive. If you can call it that. He's... it really hit him hard this time. Worse than before."

"I don't understand," Volstagg says, shaking his head, "Loki died in battle. He should be proud! He should celebrate! Even if he doesn't make it to Valhalla, I'd say it's a better death than I'd have foreseen for him."

He loses sight of them for a moment. Just a moment. The person flickers back and Loki tightens his jaw. He can feel nails boring into his palms, but he doesn't care.

_Pain is better._

"I don't think Thor would agree," Fandral says, "Despite everything Loki has done, Thor still cares for him."

"Thor needs to know," Hogun says, the only one whose emotions are not plain in his tone, "He must help us battle this evil."

"I don't think he can," Sif says, "He... Mjolnir's not with him."

They are all stunned, Loki notes, perhaps even more so than he is. Hogun is the only one who doesn't seem affected.

"He can battle without it," he says, practical as always.

"I'm not sure he wants to," Sif says, "He's just... he's lifeless. If you'd seen what I saw, you would be as concerned as I."

"Grief is not unusual, even for a warrior," Fandral says, "But if it is as bad as you say - "

"It is," Sif insists, "He can't help anyone when he's like this. He can't even help himself."

"It's can't all be because of Loki," Volstagg says, "Thor's stronger than any one of us. It must be something else."

They all consider this, as much as Loki can tell from a distance. He agrees with Volstagg and his hands tighten further. He's probably bleeding now, but what does it matter?

He needs to know where Thor is.

To keep an eye on him, he tells himself, not because he's worried.

Not because he's scared.

Not at all.

"Sif, won't you tell us where he is?" Fandral asks, and it seems this isn't the first time he's asked.

"He doesn't trust you won't come down and beat some sense into him," Sif says, trying for humor but there is no cheer.

For a moment, they seem lost. Loki recalls how they've always followed Thor around, Volstagg and Fandral most of all, depending on him for everything from fights to the games they played. When they got older they depended on Thor for guidance and no matter what Loki tried they would not see him in the same way.

He did try though, back then. If only they would see him, if only they would listen, he thought, then they would know his value. His worth.

"He's in Norway," Hogun suddenly says, breaking Loki out of his miserable reverie, "I'm sorry Sif, but if they can help... "

"Where in Norway?" Fandral asks, and Hogun tells them.

The person dissipates.

Loki forces a smile.

He knows where Thor is.

He finally knows.

And now - 

Before he even thinks it properly, he's rushing out the room, through the hallways and all the way down to the hiddenmost parts of Asgard's fortress. He ventures further, past the borders of the fort, through long tunnels and further still all the way to the depths of the planet's underbelly.

When he is as hidden as he could ever be, he concentrates on where he needs to go.

He is faster than them, he hopes.

He will get there first, he thinks.

And then he will - 

_Oh, damn it._

Loki travels with less ease than normal, landing in a small alleyway. Before his feet even hit the ground he feels sick and he doubles over, vomitting what little he's had to eat. He wipes his lips and grimaces for the acrid taste in his mouth.

He hasn't been sick like this while traveling since his first few times.

He wonders if he isn't growing weaker.

_You're already weak, look at you._

_You're so scared of him._

_Pathetic._

He casts a spell to hide his pathetic state and only then does he step out of the alleyway.

He's hidden his hair behind a short brown-haired glamour, changed his face to appear non-descript to anyone looking, and has conjured up as many layers as he could fit on himself without looking completely ridiculous.

The town Thor is hiding in is quite large and there are many places to hide especially if one does not wish to be found, but Hogun was specific enough for this search not to be pointless.

If Thor is here, and Loki is as close as he believes he is, he hopes he can cast a tracker spell.

But he can't.

Somebody has hidden Thor, and hidden him well.

Loki hopes it wasn't Heimdall, hating himself for feeling even slightly worried. Heimdall is powerful, but he is stronger.

He is.

_Who are you trying to convince?_

Loki ignores the damning voice. If Heimdall is here, he will know soon enough.

Loki shivers, pretends it's because he's cold.

_But you don't get cold, do you?_

_Monster._

He wonders what ruse he could use to get to Thor, realizes he doesn't know. He didn't prepare himself properly at all, hurrying to come here instead like a panicked coward.

Half-truths make for better lies anway.

After about a half an hour of walking, he spots what he thinks is the building Hogun described. There’s a sign hanging over the door, written on it the name Hogun mentioned.

A shop, Loki thinks, though the glass in front is dirtied enough so that you can't look through.

The sign itself is just a name of someone or something, but it looks as if it was put up there a long time ago. The whole building, while similar to others in style, looks more so decrepid than the buildings next to it and across.

Loki tries the door and finds it unlocked.

For a brief second, he reconsiders. What if Thor realizes it's him? What if his grief has made his poor patience dwindle even further?

What if he is angry enough to make good on his promise?

Loki fears and he hates that he does.

He opens the door and startles when a bell above him sounds. He shuts the door quickly and leans against it, the dirt surely clinging to his coat.

There's an old counter at the end of the room but he can't see anyone behind it. The shop, he notices, contains not any one thing, but a myriad of old things. There are music boxes on the shelves, as well as books and statues and other such knick-knacks.

It's an antique shop, Loki's mind helpfully supplies, and he wonders what in the Hel Thor is doing in such a place.

_With his lumbering stature it's a wonder he didn't break the knick-knacks already._

The thought strikes him so suddenly it almost forces a laugh out of his strained lungs. He decides to move, debating whether to signal his presence or flee, when he hears the sound of staggering footsteps to his left.

There's a spiral stairway there, leading up. And, fumbling down the stairs is -

It's him.

But it's _not_ him.

Loki looks, wide eyed, and he can't understand the sight. Not at first.

"Good morning," Thor says, slurring just a bit, "Wanna buy something?"

He's frozen in place, standing there like a fool, staring. Thor looks at him strangely, moves his hand left and right.

"You okay?"

Loki can't speak.

He knows it's Thor, he does. But he can't tear his eyes away from him, can't even think to summon a thought.

He needs to tell him why he's here.

He needs to lie.

_Lie._

"Uh, I..." Loki tries, looking around as if he indeed wants to buy something, "I was just looking."

"Yeah, you've been looking alright," Thor says, though in a moment more he relaxes, "You can look all you want, call me if you want something. Or you can just take it. I don't really care."

"That's no way to run a business," Loki says before he can stop himself.

Thor looks amused, though, not angry at all.

"It's my business to run," he says, "I'm charitable. You look like you don't have money, so."

Loki swallows offense, searching for something to say.

He could always play on that, he supposes. He didn't really think about the aesthetics of his visage but he thinks his feelings made him look a certain way.

"I... " he says, "Yes. I, uh... my mother used to collect things like these."

It pains him to say it, but he goes on, "And I... uh, I was cold. Outside."

Thor looks at him with pity.

_At least some things never change._

"Want a drink?" he asks, "Warm you right up."

Loki nods, not realizing this means he will have to go with Thor further into this strange hideout. But he goes anyway, not knowing what else to do, feeling caught and strained at the same time by the unfamiliar familiar way that Thor looks now. Walking behind him, Loki's mind finally makes fragile peace with the picture Thor makes.

He isn't wearing a glamour, Loki realizes. What Thor looks like now is simply a product of something Loki dares not call his own. He’s a little bit heavier than before in waist and step, his hair is longer and unwashed, his beard is messy and ungroomed. It's only been a year, Loki thinks, but apparently a year was enough.

Following Thor upstairs Loki finds himself in yet another strange space. Though there are no antiques up here it's almost equally as messy, filled with old pillows and comforters, sporting nothing but a bed, a small dresser, and a very small kitchen. Loki assumes the washroom is through the only door that's there, but that's it.

Long ways away from the great halls of Asgard.

"What's your poison?" Thor asks.

"Uh, whatever you'll give me."

Thor smiles at that, for some reason. Loki stands awkwardly in the middle of the suffocatingly small room, waits for the drink.

"Sit down, will you?" Thor all but demands, and Loki obeys, slumping onto the hastily made bed.

"Here," Thor says, handing him a glass bottle of something that tastes like ale, but is definitely not ale.

A grimace escapes him and Thor smiles again.

"Don't tell me this is your first real drink?"

Loki shakes his head, takes a bigger sip. It still tastes foul, but he makes no comment on it. Thor doesn't speak either, and it doesn't seem like he will. His eyes are distant and lost as he stands at the kitchen counter, having already downed half of the nasty drink.

"So, need a place to sleep?" Thor asks, and Loki startles, "Not a lot of room but, maybe downstairs... "

"I have a room," Loki says, amends, "I, uh, there's a homeless shelter nearby."

"Oh? Didn't know that," Thor says, but he shrugs it off easily, "Still, I'd be fine if... I don't know you but I, well, I don't really like to drink alone."

Loki looks at his bottle, sees the bubbles coming up from the bottom, seen through thin brownish glass. There is a myriad of the same and similar bottles strewn about the already dreadfully unclean space.

"Do you? Really?" He can’t help but ask. Thor shrugs noncommittally and something inside of Loki shifts unpleasantly.

"Do you drink a lot?”

"What is a lot?" Thor asks no one, "I drink. And I like company. You can leave whenever you want."

He sounds sad, Loki thinks, and hates himself promptly for thinking it.

Thor has been sad before but he's never succumbed to sadness, not like this. He's always been strong, just like Volstagg said. Except, Loki can't ignore the very real, very present, image Thor presents. It speaks volumes in silence.

But he can't think it.

It must be something else.

Loki's death would not mean this much, not even to Thor.

"Are you... you live here?" Loki asks, "Alone?"

The end of Thor's lip quirks up. He shrugs, "Why ask if you know the answer already?"

"Why?" Loki asks next and he feels the same as he felt sitting on the throne of Asgard.

No.

He feels _worse._

"You are... filled with questions," Thor astutely observes and Loki tries not to shrink further than he already has.

"I suppose, in some ways, I'm a coward," Thor says, and Loki can't help but look at him then, really look at him.

The fire inside him only burns more for it.

"A coward?" he questions, "Oh, now I'm interested. What does that word mean, to you?"

Thor looks at him strangely, but in a moment more his expression falls back to what it was before. Blank, utterly blank.

"Some things are heavy to carry," Thor says, "I'm beginning to understand."

Loki bites his lip, if only to stop himself from screaming. He takes another sip of the drink, while Thor opens another one. The sound of the cap echoes in the silence.

"I suppose I understand," Loki says, plays for nonchalance even as he burns and burns, "There are expectations in life, things we must fulfill regardless of our wants. Or perhaps just to spite them."

Thor lets out a small nothing of a laugh, "Indeed," he brings his bottle up in false cheer, "How about it? Let us cheer for a better future."

Loki fears his grip on the bottle will shatter the frail glass.

"Of course," he says, "Cheers."

Thor nods, extends his bottle and then drinks from it. He drinks and he drinks until it's empty.

Loki knows he'll take another one and has a passing thought to stop him, except that Thor never listens so it would be a waste of breath. He wants to know more, to poke and prod until Thor crumbles under the weight of whatever ails him, but he doesn't have enough time.

Loki knows they're going to land here soon, if they haven't already. He fumbles for something to do, for something to say, but he's caught here with no way out. Still, the fire inside him burns at the sight of Thor, at his impertinence to feign suffering like this when he knows nothing of true pain.

Thor may be having a bad year, but Loki still has so many more bad days over him.

At least in that, he wins.

The outside shakes with the sound of the Bifrost. Thor makes no effort to hide his exhaustion for hearing it, but he does make an effort to lie.

"Bad weather,” he says, "I wonder if it’ll rain.”

Loki assumes a Midgardian might realize that the sound is not, in fact, of thunder. He tells Thor so, feigns ignorance as best as he can, but Thor just shrugs. In a moment more he’s released from the pretense by the sound of a bell.

"Excuse me,” Thor says, "Seems I have another customer.”

Once Thor leaves, his heavy steps loud on the creaking stairs, Loki wonders if his own pretense should have been lifted before Volstagg and Fandral landed here. That was what he meant to do, isn’t it?

He doesn’t know.

Thor has had visits from Sif and Hogun at least once but he hasn’t come back to Asgard. Loki considers the virtue of his presence here. What can he even do? What does he want to do here?

Loki knows time is a fickle thing, but he thinks he should be brave. He’s already run here for the strange irritating ache that has struck him so suddenly, but he doesn’t have to bow down before it.

Downstairs, he hears Volstagg’s booming voice turn from glad to disbelief, rolling ever so loudly to anger. Thor must be having a time of it, trying to excuse his absence, his appearance. Loki can hear Fandral too, but his voice is less so angry and more so concerned.

Loki considers further what would truly happen if Thor did go back. His ruse would fall, if it hasn’t already, but with the looming threat of the Mad Titan, is it truly for the best for Loki to lead them?

He can’t help his doubts, and he can help even less his fear.

Asgard isn’t short of powerful warriors but Loki has no compunction in admitting that Asgard would benefit from Thor being there, at least insofar as people there adore him. To admit this, even to himself, hurts deeply. It’s that same sort of pain that never seems to leave him.

But the people. The warriors, the servants, the commoners. They would all follow him. They would look upon Thor and see nothing less than strength, nothing less than glory. It would strengthen, in turn, their hearts and their minds for the war that is to come.

There’s not much strength to be found here though, Loki muses, observes the sorry state of Thor’s one bedroom home. Clothes are strewn everywhere, checkered shirts and plain short sleeves cotton, jeans carelessly thrown over a chair in the small kitchen. The smell of them is the kind that gathers over time and lingers unpleasantly.

Even though he can still hear his voice, the conversation below growing steadily more strained, in Thor’s physical absence from this particular space, Loki’s fire burns itself out.

This isn’t a good place to be. It isn’t a cell, but it might as well be. Loki wonders, again, as to the cause of it.

This can’t possibly be because of him.

It can’t be.

He hears footsteps coming up, but not the sound of The Bifrost. Startled, Loki thinks to vanish, but before he can gather his wits to do it the flimsy wooden door opens and Thor doesn’t come back alone.

"Hello,” Fandral says, makes a motion as if he’s going to bow but then he lifts his hand up in greeting instead, "Didn’t know you had company.”

The tone with which he says this doesn’t sit well with Loki, but Thor shrugs it off.

"Just a kid,” he says, "Has nowhere else to be.”

"Oh,” Fandral hums, "Well, the more the merrier?”

Thor shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips. He turns back to Loki, "Ah, I didn’t get your name? This is Fandral, an old friend of mine.”

"I am not old,” Fandral says in playful protest.

Loki feels a bit sick. He struggles for a Midgardian sounding name, lists off the names he does know, but he’s already taking too long.

"It’s fine if you don’t want to tell us,” Thor says, "We are strangers, after all.”

Loki almost breathes a sigh of relief. Of course, there can be no relief because now he’s under two pairs of familiar eyes staring him down. But at the same time, Loki knows it’s better to stay.

He needs to gather information.

_Knowledge with purpose._

"I’m…” he says, "Uh, my name is Ari."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: the amazing @wnnbdarklord <3 <3 <3


	3. In The Wet Woods Bound

Loki doesn’t know what to do. Thor is yet to return to Asgard despite his friend’s impassioned pleas and his new friend Ari’s listening ear.

Does Loki want Thor back, or does he not?

_He will know you aren’t him the moment he sees you._

"I’ve fooled others."

_Did you?_

"He doesn’t suspect Ari," Loki says, but the voice in his head is faster anyway.

It doesn’t matter, the voice insists, because Thor does not know this imagined person but he does know his father, he knows Odin The King.

Loki’s gaze falls from the familiar face staring at him from the mirror. Even if his paranoia had never taken such strong hold of him he would still fear because the day will come when battles will be fought and he -

He is not Odin.

He is not The Allfather.

He is not their king.

"Thor could help," Loki muses, "Asgard has always loved him. Cherished him, their one true prince."

_Do you think your crimes will be so easily forgiven?_

"No," Loki says, "No, they won’t be."

_No. They won’t be._

_He abandoned them._

_They will see._

_They don’t need him, they need you!_

Loki’s decision is somewhat feeble, nevertheless a decision it is. Later that day, Loki makes his way back to Midgard. He conjures the visage of Ari, this scrawny pathetic looking boy, and takes up a casual stroll towards Thor’s Midgardian home.

Thor is, as always, bathed in sweat and smell of ale but he welcomes Ari with a smile and a pat on the back.

"Sure you don’t want to take anything?" Thor asks, "Some of this stuff sells for a good price."

"Thank you," Ari says, "But I couldn’t possibly. Besides, I rather like coming here. If I suddenly became rich I fear I would have to climb higher up the social strata."

Thor laughs at Ari’s joke as he always does. Somewhat more jovial now, he offers Ari a drink and Ari accepts. Upstairs, in Thor’s messy room, they each take their seats and Loki prepares to use his words to weave a different kind of magic.

Thor sighs, slumped in his seat as he is, "Have you slept well, Ari? You appear… if I may be so bold, you appear exhausted."

"So do you," Ari says, "If I may be equally as bold."

Allowing this to pass with nothing but a shadow of a smile, Thor says, "I worry about you. You are so young. You have so many years ahead of you. I simply wish… "

"You wish?" Ari prods.

"I wish… " Thor says, "Oh, never mind. You seem used to the beer now," he says instead, points at Ari’s face, "You no longer recoil from its foul taste."

Ari chuckles, "Yeah, I suppose so. Beer, huh. I think I would prefer something sweeter."

"Ah, you would prefer a lady’s drink?" Thor jests, and Ari feigns amusement.

"What do good ladies drink?" he asks, plasters on a pleasant smile.

Thor shrugs, "They do drink beer. Don’t misunderstand me. But a sweet drink is always made for a lady. Something with fruit. The tenders of the bar use vessels of thin glass with long necks, and they fill them up with sugary juice. Sometimes there’s even sugar around the brim of the glass. An umbrella, I’ve also seen."

"Ah," Ari says, "You speak as if you’re an explorer of the fine plethora of drinks one can make. Almost as if, ah, almost as if you’ve never seen such a thing before."

"Uh, I’ve seen it plenty times," Thor defends weakly, "But I thought you might want to know. Although, now that I think on it, you must have sneaked into a few bars on your own."

"I haven’t," Ari says, feigning offense, "I’m satisfied to wait until I’m of age."

"For the bar I assume," Thor says, "Not the drink?"

"As if you could make a drinkable lady’s drink," Ari says, "I suppose such is my fate, I must wait."

"But if I were to take you there… you wouldn’t have to wait."

Ari tilts his head, "Oh? Are you suggesting an adventure?"

"Hardly," Thor huffs out a chuckle, "But I do think I’d like to buy you a drink you would like. One drink won’t do much harm."

Loki cares little where they sit or stand to speak, but Ari would probably show some amount of nerves for the idea. Appropriately, Loki strives to show such on Ari’s gaunt face.

"I’ll be with you," Thor says, a wonderful enabler that he’s always been, "It’s not overly scary, I assure you."

Not overly scary is an accurate assessment. They had to wait a bit for the night life to begin but once they make it to the nearest bar Loki is quite charmed by it. The lights around them are washing the room in a pleasant golden glow and the sturdy wooden tables and chairs remind Loki of similar places in Asgard. The bar itself, the long table with many names of different ales, stands in its very center and is already filled with people. The commotions is likewise not unpleasant, but Loki is aware that he is supposed to be young and inexperienced.

"Uh… how does anyone get to their drink," Ari comments, "There’s so many people to serve."

"Ah," Thor says, smug, "There’s greater feasts than this. They will all be served their drink, worry not. Let’s stand in line. I’ve learned this the hard way friend Ari, but one must wait their turn otherwise the good men around him might become terribly upset."

Loki resists a roll of eyes as Ari dutifully nods and follows Thor to where the line is. While they wait Thor points to a variety of cocktails the names of which are written in a neat cursive and are hanging on the wall behind the bar. Loki is somewhat familiar with some of them from his previous ventures to Midgard, but he feigns ignorance as Thor attempts to explain in his own simple way which cocktail contains which ingredient.

Even though Loki already knows what he wants, for Ari’s sake he orders the one Thor praises as the most ladylike of all.

"It comes highly recommended," Thor says knowingly, "It is pink in color and very sweet."

Thor orders a beer of some sort and this cocktail for Ari. Surprisingly, they get their drinks quite quickly, even at the expense of some who Loki notices have been waiting longer. The bartender smiles at Thor, greets him as if he knows him, and he probably does. Loki can only assume that when Thor tires of wallowing in solitary sorrow he comes to drink here.

They sip their drinks while waiting for a table to open and, once one does, they make their way there. The noise of the crowd does not wane, but in the relative privacy of their little booth the people seem more distant and their own closeness more apparent. Loki knows what will happen once Thor has more to drink, so he waits patiently and sips his own.

The drink is pink, and it is sweet. There isn’t an umbrella in it, in its place is instead a small black straw. Loki likes the drink, but he tastes quite a bit of liquor in it so he promptly grimaces.

"You’ll get used to it," Thor says, "Is it at least sweet enough?"

"It’s good," Ari says, "But the liquor in it is strong."

"Ah, your second real drink," Thor says, smiles and brings his own up in cheer, "Or the first, if you ask someone else."

They cheer for the occasion and thus begins Thor’s night of drinking and talking and Loki’s night of sipping his drink and listening. At some point, Thor switches from beer to something stronger. The smell of it is the same as what is hidden under the sweetness in Loki’s drink, so Loki surmises that it must be a clear version of the same thing. Vodka, Loki recalls, from the taste of it.

"Oh, I sense… " Thor says, slurs just a bit for the liquor must have finally affected him, "I sense I may be boring you. Why would a young man want to listen to an old man’s prattling?"

"You’re not old," Ari says, even though in just one year Thor looks to have aged a ten.

"Oh, if only you knew, friend Ari," Thor says, empties his glass, "How a man’s soul might be older than his body."

Privately, Loki balks at Thor’s pathetic tone and his worthless words. What does Thor know of true suffering, when even now he has hordes of support in Asgard and even more so from his dear friends. Loki has tracked their movements since the first time he’s found Thor, worried that the strings he already barely holds would simply snap, only to find that their visits to Thor have become a near daily affair.

Nothing they have said has been particularly welcoming, however, not the least Fandral’s implications towards Ari’s role in Thor’s life. Gallant in public and lascivious in private, as always. Volstagg visits Thor less often than Sif, but they’re both nearly equally as aggressive for his return home and therefore nearly equally as disappointed when he doesn’t.

Loki can not even summon gladness for the fact that Hogun has gone back to Vanaheim because he knows how far those eyes can track him even if they are not the eyes of the Watcher. Heimdall manages to stay hidden, despite Loki’s best efforts, though Loki is almost convinced that he is not here, on Midgard, with Thor.

Ah, Thor. His eyelids are dropping for the liquor and the tiredness he wears so badly. He’s never had much trouble making friends, and Ari is no exception. His open heart sings even now as he speaks to this practical stranger who listens in silence.

"I dreamed of him last night," Thor says, looks away to a place beyond the walls of this space, "I saw his eyes as life left him and I… when I went back, he was no longer there. He appears to me in my dreams, he tells me terrible cruel things. It is as if I failed him and… oh, the more I dream, and the more I think, the more I feel… "

_You did fail me._

"Forgive me," Thor says, once more strangely apologetic, "I dream of them all. The living, and the dead. I thought I was much stronger but when a heart doubts the mind follows and so does the body."

"It must not be as bad as you think," Ari says, "Dreams often serve merely to relieve us of doubts, not to foster them."

"Ah, if only I could tell you," Thor says, "For it is worse than I say. Much worse."

"Tell me then," Ari says, leans against the table, "I will listen. I promise."

Thor shakes his head, lips upturned in a pale smile, "Friend Ari. What have I done to deserve such a generous and curious companion?"

"You’ve bought me my first second real drink," Ari says with ease, "Where I come from, a favor deserves at least consideration in turn, if not a reward."

"You sometimes speak with a certain maturity I don’t expect from a young man," Thor says, "I know your life has been hardly easy."

Loki did spin a story, on his second visit, wanting to connect to this sorrowful part of Thor. People become close only when they reveal their heart, Loki knows, so he did enough to open a fraction of the heart he’d fashioned for Ari.

"When my mother died I… " Ari says, "I was sad. Like you. But, mostly, I was angry. I was so angry I felt as if the very strength of my rage could break down a number of fortified structures, if not crumble mountains."

"Ah, I fear my own anger has all but sunk against unrest," Thor says, "Anger is a strange thing to feel. It comes in a wave as strong as disturbed ocean water and yet just as quickly it either sinks to the ground or it falls back to calm waters."

"I find that mine lingers," Ari says, doesn’t even have to think so far back, merely to the things Thor has recently told him, "It burns, like fire. I can feel it so strongly I fear I might fall far before any mountain."

"Even now, friend Ari?" Thor asks and, curse him, but he sounds honestly concerned.

Ari shakes his head, "Not so much now. I’m in good company, sat in a place nicer than I’ve ever been to, with wonderful sweetness of this drink still upon my lips. I may be many things, but ungrateful I am not."

"I would never even think it," Thor says, smiles a bit brighter, "I believe you to be a strong boy, Ari, and I believe you will grow into yet a stronger man."

"Really?" Ari asks, eyes as wide as he can get them, "I don’t know. I feel weak. I don’t really… I have no one who believes in me. At least, I didn’t, not for a long time."

"My belief is strong," Thor says, "And it is honest. I just wish… "

"You wish?"

Once again, Thor doesn’t say. He stares into his empty glass and gets up to have another. Ari stays behind, watches his retreating back illuminated by the lights. Thor walks with a heavy step and his shoulders no longer stand upright, tall and proud. If he was wearing his red cloak now it would have the appearance of a common rag.

"Sometimes it’s alright to escape," Ari says, when Thor comes back, "I know… I realize it might sound like cowardice, but when things become heavy in one place another might make your soul clearer and brighter."

"Oh, if it were so simple," Thor says, "Duty is rarely tied to wants. My soul is hardly worth its brightness if other souls dim for my absence."

"So?" Ari says, "One soul can not possibly carry the burden of others. It’s too much to ask, isn’t it?"

Thor sighs, shrugs, "Perhaps. But my friends… I spoke to them recently, more so than in some time. They understand, but they need me."

"Need you for what?" Ari asks, but Thor still seems ill inclined to speak further on the topic.

"I feel it is enough to say simply that they need me," Thor says, "There is a task that must be done and they expect my presence to lift their spirits."

"Ah," Ari says, "Forgive me, but they don’t seem like good friends to me if they so easily depend on you. Don’t they have their own strengths?"

Thor plainly takes offense, but he doesn’t verbally protest other than to say, "We’ve known each other for ages, at least it seems so. They would not ask such a thing of me if it were not gravely important. They come to me, you see, with worries and doubts and I… I have so many of my own I fear I know not where to place theirs."

"What are their worries then?" Ari asks, thinking that he might overstep, "I just mean… they can’t be more important than the well-being of their friend."

"I would tell you, my friend," Thor says, "But I fear you will not believe me almost as equally as I fear that, if you do, it will burden you unnecessarily."

"Thor," Ari says, in particular emphasizing his name, "I appreciate how careful you are with me, don’t think I don’t. You’ve been so good to me so far, so careful not to make me fear or otherwise make me uncomfortable. But I have to tell you, at this point, you do know word travels faster these days, right?"

Thor seems confused, so Ari explains as he infuses his voice with calm gladness, "I know of you, Thor. I know who you are. Had we not spoken so openly I might not have realized it, for it seems nobody in here does. But I know. I’ve seen you and your majestic hammer."

Thor’s eyes widen but then his confusion seems to dissipate, "I… oh, I must not have thought about it overly. I always forget people have those little things, those little _devices_ , with which they capture even the smallest event that is then connected to a wondrous web where they share them."

"Correct," Ari says, "Mind you, it’s difficult to capture you in your true glory, fast as you are, but perhaps next time if you wish to remain hidden you could chance to refuse a few lovely ladies their digital mementos."

Thor blushes, or rather becomes redder than he already is.

"Still," he says, "I assumed I was… well, I hope you aren’t disappointed. I am long ways away from that man. I doubt I would be so lucky as to even be asked for a memento, now, as I am."

Ari smiles, stands up, loses himself in the group of people while he searches for a way to covertly take someone’s phone. He doesn’t want the phone to look too expensive, should Thor doubt his ownership of it, but he does want it to, at least, take a nice picture. Thus decided, Ari finds his pray and loot and orders another drink for Thor. The bartender works fast for his regular customer and so in a matter of minutes Ari is back at their table.

"Where did you go?" Thor asks, frowns.

"Your drink, oh mighty Avenger," Ari says, though he takes care not to be too loud, "And this."

Before Thor can react, Ari swings his arm across Thor’s shoulders and he snaps a picture. He shows it to Thor and then he flops back onto his seat in the booth.

"You are still worthy of a memento," Ari says, "I’m not a lovely lady, but I will cherish it. And I promise not to post it anywhere."

Thor seems both embarrassed and glad. Ari smiles and winks for good measure. Although it twists his insides to even think it, Loki considers Fandral’s foul words, he considers Thor’s loneliness, and he considers the only thing a man like Thor might leave behind his duty for.

Although Thor hasn’t said anything of that Midgardian woman, she is clearly no longer present in his life. If she were here, Loki thinks, Thor would hardly be so downtrodden. His bed is empty, his room occupied only by empty bottles of beer and an occasional vessel holding greasy barely eaten food, and he seems to cling to Ari as if his need to be close to someone outweighs his need to carefully hide against prying eyes.

"Where is your hammer, by the way?" Ari chances an ask, and Thor’s expression promptly falls.

Ari apologizes, but Thor rejects his apology.

"It’s alright," he says, "I simply… it is a symbol of something more, something important. And I no longer have the right to hold it."

"How come?" Ari asks, brows carefully twisted in concern.

Thor shrugs as his lips crook right, "It is safe. The Avengers, we’ve, eh… I suppose I should say, they, have their own paths to walk now. But I did entrust my hammer to one of them."

Despite Thor’s open nature, Ari is still somewhat surprised that he would offer such important information so easily. Not that Thor is the smartest when it comes to things like this, but to think nothing of it? Ari freely assumes it’s the drink that’s loosened Thor’s lips more.

"I hope your friend keeps it safe," Ari says, "I may not fully understand it but I see how important this weapon is to you, regardless of its other worth."

Thor does smile then, and Ari can see clearly the pain in his eyes for even the thought of Mjolnir. Ari wouldn’t smile at Thor’s misery, so Loki doesn’t either.

"This friend is… an interesting man," Thor says, "I’m not certain I trust him fully, but in this matter I must. There is no one else better suited to keep such a valuable item safe, as he is truly one of Midgard… uh, _Earth’s_ greatest heroes."

When Ari doesn’t immediately respond, Thor seems to realize he’s said more than he meant to. However, he doesn’t say anything either. Loki resolves to think on where Mjolnir might be when this night is over, though he has a good guess as to who this friend is.

Lost in the noise of the crowd and Thor’s steady drinking, Loki settles into the booth’s sturdy seat. As he does, so he settles into the body of Ari: a curious and oppiniated boy who will keep Thor far far away from the halls of Asgard.

*** 

Loki sits on the throne of Asgard. Before him kneel Sif, Fandral and Volstagg. Their heads are bowed but their hearts are alight with rebellion. Loki has devised a plan to break them up and toss them as far away from Asgard and each other as possible. In service of the upcoming war with the Mad Titan it is their king’s decree that his bravest warriors take their place on planets where warriors and resources are scarce.

"You obey your king, do you not?"

They nod and bow ever deeper.

"We obey our king," Sif says, "But … "

"If we may," Fandral speaks up, "Forgive us, my king, but we would visit Thor again just so we can…"

"Again?" Loki asks, imbues all the ignorance and all the power into this one word under which Fandral promptly cowers.

"Forgive us, my king," Fandral says, "We simply wanted to make certain Thor is well."

"And?"

Fandral dares to look up, frowns, so Loki clarifies, "Is my son well?"

"My king," Volstagg says, "We dare not speak more than this but… no, he is not well. Battle is purpose, as you well know, and your son needs purpose."

Loki sighs, pretends to think on it.

"My son," he says, "is safe where he is. I’ve already sent my ravens to watch over him," Loki pauses just so he can see if they would dare ask him how the Great King has found Thor and when they don't he raises his voice and says, "The king is the one who should take up leadership in war while his family stays safe. Once I am gone Asgard will have their king, but for that to happen Thor must stay alive. He must stay where he is and we must do our utmost to defend this great realm from the Mad Titan’s hand so that, when Thor’s time does come, he has a throne to sit upon."

Loki dares them to disagree and he sees that they would had they not so ardently said that their obedience need not be earned anew.

"Very well, my king," Sif says, though Loki doubts her words, "We will do as you wish. We will keep this realm safe from harm so that Thor may yet have a home to rule."

When they leave, Loki makes his way towards his chambers but on his way there he falters. He has to lean against one of the pillars, his heart beating loudly and his hands sweaty. He fumbles with them, tries to calm down, tries to still his twisted stomach.

How well Thor’s friends lie, even to a king they claim to honor. Loki is torn between two sides and he doesn’t know which he should go to first. He must visit Odin, for his spell must be renewed, and yet he must check on Thor for he is certain one of his friends, if not all, will visit him once more.

He doesn’t notice, quiet as he is, when the head servant appears before him as if out of thin air.

"Are you well, my king?"

Loki curses his perfect attendance and his seemingly perfect instinct. He nods, "Old age carries a variety of ills. But I am well enough."

The servant seems dubious and so he offers his king a shoulder to lean on. Odin would likely refuse, but Loki is feeling about ready to pass out so he accepts the offer. Once inside his chambers the servant helps him with his over-clothes. Grappling as he is with various clasps, the servant gasps once he reaches the bare skin of Loki’s arm.

"You are freezing!" he says, "Oh, forgive me my impertinence. If you’re cold, my king, I could send for some wood… "

Only then does Loki realize that there is a small burn on the man’s fingers. The servant doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t notice yet, but for Loki it is as terrible as if he’d seen the hands of Hela herself. He rushes the servant out as politely as he can. He slumps against the doors he’s shut with considerable fervor and he stares and stares into his hands.

They are not blue. They are wrinkled and old, in places spotted. They are the hands of Odin, but something is different. Loki thinks he might be growing weaker for the strain and so his glamour suffers. His mind is his greatest weapon but even his mind can grow dull.

So he must go to Odin first, regardless of all else. Once he sleeps, once he has enough energy, he must go and prolong his tedious spell.

Loki should have realized he would find no rest.

His dreams are often bathed in darkness where he can’t see anything but he can hear everything. Voices deep and rough, as if coming from the deepest belly of the deepest cavern echo, and within the echo they roll over each other like waves. Loki knows he is dreaming of that place, knows it even within the dream.

Desperately he wishes to wake up but he can not. He tries to scream but no sound comes. He tries to move but finds he is trapped. As it is in his mind so it is in his body. The darkness shifts and all he can see is red upon red upon red. Within the red a promise is made which he knows will be kept. He knows the Mad Titan is coming for him and he knows he will grant him nothing but a dishonorable death.

Loki shudders, though his dream self does not move.

The glaring red bleeds slowly into gray. Loki feels the winds of Helheim touch his skin and freeze even his monstrous bones. Death does not appear to him as a shadow but her touch is displayed all around him once the gray begins to fall for the golden hues of Asgard. There, Loki sees the bodies of Asgardian soldiers, servants and commoners, all bathed equally in blood and decay. His dream self exists in many places at one time and so he travels fast, the images unyielding as they reveal themselves before him.

Loki understands at once that what he is seeing is no longer a dream but before he can answer the screams of those still living, and grasp for the hands of his brother who is running from a giant wolf, the images change and he is no longer seeing anything at all.

Bathed in sweat, Loki wakes with a start. The vision lingers where his nightmare has faded while exhaustion makes itself known in many small aches and pains. Loki wonders whom the vision came from, worries at the palm of his hand.

He can’t tell. He can’t even think. He’s tired and he’s utterly disgusting.

Resolute in his attempt to at least attempt to clean the stale scent of a nightmarish night, Loki takes a bath.

While the water initially soothes his body, soon he finds he is much too hot even though the water has cooled down some. Loki knows he is changing but he doesn’t know why.

Back in his chambers Loki looks at himself and tries to see what it is that _has_ changed. Has the monster broken through, Loki wonders as dread washes over him.

But he can’t see a thing wrong with his glamour. The face of Odin stares back at him as solid as before, his one eye blue instead of red. If there were time, Loki would have taken a moment to breathe and perhaps attempt to sleep again but if there is any chance at all that his magic has been weakened Loki knows he must go to the man whose face he stole.

Thus decided, Loki lands on Midgard and once more he traces the familiar steps back to the dilapidated shelter.

Maria is there, as she always is, and she greets her warmly, as she always does. Vera has barely enough strength to return her warm smile and she knows she notices. Thankfully, Maria doesn’t say anything. She leads her to Odin’s room, explains he is tired today, says he’s been sleeping a lot lately.

"I don’t think there’s a whole lot to be done," Maria says quietly as she opens the door, "At least he is at peace."

Odin is, indeed, at peace. At least it seems so to Vera at first glance, but when she moves closer to sit by him she notices there are beads of sweat on his forehead and his breathing sounds labored, quiet though it is.

Maria excuses herself and Vera stares and stares at this old man. It seems he’s in the grips of a nightmare and this is confirmed when he manages a mumble or two.

"I need to tell them… " he says, "I need to warn them… "

Vera looks to the door and then back to the bed. Satisfied that she’s truly alone with him, she places a hand upon his forehead. Vera closes her eyes and before him Loki sees the vast nothingness of Helheim. Carried by the wind the sweet voice of Death echoes all around him like a siren as he desperately tries to evade her by covering his ears with his trembling hands.

When the dust settles there stands a shadow. The shadow speaks and its voice is alluring and deep.

"Fear has such a delicious smell," the shadow says and Loki’s heart feels ready to burst as his lungs seize on a breath, "I wonder, what is it you’re so afraid of?"

The shadow shifts and Odin now appears before him, his one eye gleaming with unspoken fury. For a moment it seems as though the man is speaking to him but his lips aren’t moving and his body is a motionless statue.

"It’s the end of all things, Loki," Death’s whispers echo over and under the voice of Odin as his visage flickers between old and young, "There will be nothing left unless you stop him."

Vera falls backwards from the chair, hits the ground and yelps in pain. She can barely breathe, as if the darkness of Helheim has followed her back. The man still sleeps, though he doesn’t sleep soundly and in a moment more he wakes, his one eye finding her immediately.

"Vera?" the man mumbles, "No, no… you’re not Vera. I know you. I know who you are…"

"Who am I then, old man?" Loki asks as he stands up.

When true recognition finally dawns in Odin’s one eye, Loki weaves his magic and the light in his gray eye dims.

"Vera… oh, I had a terrible terrible dream… "

"Shh, it’s okay," Vera says, her hand still upon his forehead, "Dreams are just dreams. You’re safe where you are."

The man calms and his one eye closes. Of course, Loki has no idea whether the man is safe here, even with his spell weaving protecting this memory-less creation from prying eyes, and for a moment he considers his actions.

He considers, as much as he is able to given that his heart is yet to calm, if what he is doing here is a mistake. Asgard is without its king, without its true heir, and now without its strongest soldiers.

Is it worth keeping up the pretense, is it worth reaching for this illusive worth that Loki has never been privy to nor born for, if the consequences of it lead them all to perish?

_Your birthright was to die._

_You’re powerful enough to protect them._

_You’d cower and yield now?_

_Coward._

"Maria," Vera says, finding the woman busy at her desk, "How long… how long do you think he has?"

Maria seems ill inclined to speak, her concentrated frown deepening, "Vera, I can see that the answer will hurt you."

Loki ignores the apparently very visible pain stabbing at his heart, "I want to know. So I can be here."

Nodding, Maria’s solemn gaze finds her, "I don’t know exactly when because I don’t know what’s wrong with him to begin with. The medic has been here, examined him, couldn’t tell me a damn thing. But, well, I’ve been in this business long enough to know when time for the final rest is approaching. If you want to be here for him, well, I suppose you could give me a phone number, I don’t think you’ve written it down…"

There is no number. But Loki owns a phone now and so he gives Maria the number that is there. Vera would stay, but Loki has another visit to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: the absolute grammar queen @wnnbdarklord <3 <3 <3


	4. A Lover of Ill

Shivering and wheezing, Ari enters Thor’s Antique shop and promptly slumps against its beaten down wooden door. Thor rushes to him from his spot behind the counter. Ari hears his beer bottle fall and the glass break before he feels Thor’s hands lift him up.

"Ari… Ari, what has happened?"

Thor is so concerned, Loki fights a smile. Even though Thor’s a warrior, and has seen many a wound in battle, when it comes to those younger than him he feels as if his giant lumbering body should mean only to protect.

"I… " Ari mumbles, "I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go."

"It’s okay, Ari, it’s good you came here," Thor says as he gently leads him up the stairs and helps him sit on his bed.

Seconds later, Thor’s back from the bathroom with medicinal supplies. Ari winces when Thor dabs alcohol over his wounds but manages to keep silent while he bandages the worst of it. Finally, Thor fishes out a frozen bag of some sort of Midgardian food and places it gently over Ari’s swollen eye.

"Thank you," Ari says, but Thor shushes him, "Don’t. Just tell me what happened."

Ari spins the story with precision. He is so young and so small, Thor can see that plainly, and his harsh life means he is often a target of those stronger and bigger than him.

"It’s stupid, really," Ari says, "I… I liked the bar you brought me to. I had no money to go there though so I, ah, I found a different one. "

"Ari," Thor says, serious as anything, "I did not mean to cause this. If you ever want another drink, or to go to another bar, I will take you!"

Ari laughs, just a little.

"I didn’t want to be a bother," he says, sighs, "Your friendship means more to me than most anything else."

Thor frowns, not in anger but in endless compassion. His eyes gleam with tears he won’t allow himself to shed and Loki’s heart twists and twists.

"I would protect you," Thor says, "I’m here for you, Ari. Whenever you need me."

Loki grits his teeth, feels a sudden urge to scream. Ari nods softly, sniffs a little for good measure. Thor pats his shoulder gently.

"You must be so tired, friend Ari," Thor says, "I shall give you new clothes and then you’ll sleep. How does that sound?"

There is little else to do but agree with Thor. He can be strangely motherly when he wants to be, Loki thinks. As he’s fumbling with Thor’s giant checkered shirt Loki uses this opportunity to see what else he can gleam from Thor’s eyes but he sees not a thing to suggest any greater desire. Loki’s stomach twists for the thought, understanding at once where his cowardly desperation almost led him.

But, if Thor doesn’t want Ari, then how could he make him stay with him?

Dark thoughts begin to shadow Loki’s mind. Perhaps what Thor wants is a brother. A new one, a better one, one who wouldn’t think to ever go against him.

When he finally lays down, Thor lays beside him.

They used to sleep like this when they were little, Loki recalls. Thor’s hands were around him like this, or the other way around, and while most nights were calm sometimes either one of them would cry over some imagined slight, or else something too real to yet be understood by someone so young.

Thor was, and is, many things. Sometimes he is kind and sometimes he is mean. Sometimes he scatters his love freely to whomever needs it and sometimes he snatches it away without a seconds thought. Even a skilled wordsmith might need to struggle for the right words around Thor but, once the right words are found, the stone becomes moldable clay.

Sometimes, Thor stood with his back turned to him, his protection given as easily as his smile. Other times Thor stood to his left and Loki felt as if their strength when they’re together would never be matched.

Most often though, Thor stood above him. So high above and beyond him that, no matter how much Loki reached up, how much he looked to the skies to grant him the same benevolence they showered Thor with, it mattered little.

Loki cries.

Ari is not him, after all, and Ari is hurt. He is young and small and in pain and so he cries. At least this time, Loki thinks distantly, his tears might serve him better.

"Ari, don’t cry, please," Thor says, in a tone so silent Loki barely hears it.

"Why do I come here, Thor?" Loki asks, "Why do I seek you so ardently when I must not?"

"Ari, Ari…" Thor calls, shushes him with gentleness Loki hasn’t felt from Thor in ages.

He sobs and he feels and he hates that he does.

"Thor…" Ari mumbles, "Please don’t leave me."

"Oh, Ari. I won’t leave, not right now."

"But you will leave?"

"My dear friend," Thor sighs, "I don’t mean to frighten you, but there is something coming for my home. For all of our homes. I’ve learned of a spur of magical activity around a few places in Midgard and I must… "

_Damn it._

Loki wonders who is tracking such a thing, has a few people in mind, namely Thor’s lost woman, her friend whose mind he’d once possessed, even the arrogant blathering damned Tony Stark.

But he can’t ask.

Ari would not.

Ari is upset.

Thor is going to leave him.

"Don’t leave me Thor, don’t leave me, please," Ari whines and Thor’s hands tighten around him.

"I had a terrible dream last night," Thor says, in a tone so quiet Loki barely hears it over his heaving breaths, "Except, it was no dream. I know not if you believe in such things, friend Ari, but it was a vision. I’ve been seeing glimpses of such horrible things, but this night I saw…"

There is no need for Thor to finish his thought because Loki knows exactly what Thor has seen in his vision. His heaving breaths stop but his whole body lays taut and he feels as pulled thin as lyre wire.

Thor had the same vision.

No, Thor has been having the same vision.

Loki wonders when it began, concludes that it must have been a year ago. It would certainly explain Thor’s sorry state for even seeing it once has made Loki come undone.

"The time has come for me to meet my fate," Thor says, his hold on Ari still strong, still so warm and so present, "But, I will tell you this, my friend. Regardless of all misfortune and all the darkness in this world and others, I will always think of you fondly. And, whether I am here or not, you will always have a friend in me."

Loki cries as Ari’s small hands grip Thor’s arms where he holds them around him. He whimpers and sobs like a child and he can not stop.

The visage of Helheim stands strong in his mind, the sound of Death and the voice that calls to him even now, even here, even as protected as he is in Thor’s strong grip. And _him_ , the other shadow that never leaves, whose voice rules over much of Loki’s suffering, echoes along with Death in a strange feverish dance.

Asgard needs Thor.

But if Thor returns to claim his throne, Loki will lose.

They will all see, they will all know, that the monster has worn their king’s skin. That this monster purported to protect them when he falls so easily.

When he is so weak.

_Calm down!_

He can’t fall to feeling now! He can’t fall at all.

But strategy so often falls to feeling.

_Calm down, you fool._

Even if he doesn’t know yet how it will come to be, Loki knows what will happen, and Thor does too. Ragnarok is coming, the end of all things, and a true end will follow. There will be no Valhalla to feast in, no Folkvagnr for those who can not fight, and no hope at all of Rebirth.

Loki tries to quiet his sobs, tries to find air that has left him so abruptly, but he finds a wall there as strong as the Asgardian fortress. He can’t hear what Thor is saying over his own pathetic sniveling, and when Thor’s hands tighten further around him and his breath ghosts over his neck, Loki can no longer breathe. He begins to wheeze and gasp as he feels Thor shift.

As soon as Thor lets go of him, Loki shoots up and cries out. He knows well what is happening but not even knowledge can help him here. His lungs are deplete of air and his panic only grows as he stares at Thor through blurry eyes and wishes with all his might that in this moment he could simply disappear, truly disappear, before Thor’s pitying eyes find him.

When he runs out, Thor follows. He tries to stop him but Loki evades his stumbling grip. He runs out into the cold Norway air but he scarcely feels the cold for how overheated he is. Still, he knows it is cold, freezing cold, and if Thor touches him now…

Loki smacks his hand away and falls, tumbles down onto his knees, bruising them on the rough concrete. Thor tries to reach for him again and Loki screams, "Don’t touch me!"

Thor backs away, but he is still too close and Loki is trapped. Well and truly, he has been caught. He feels and knows what will happen next and so he turns away, desperate to hide, but there is nowhere to hide now.

He feels the trickle of his long hair as he clutches it in his trembling hands and he hears Thor gasp behind him. Loki’s eyes are shut tight but he feels the ridges form around his face, feels them on the skin of his hands. The cold becomes warmth and the air becomes stifling while his red eyes hurt for even the littlest light of the fading sun.

"Loki… " Thor says, his voice rough in disbelief.

Anger will follow, Loki knows. And anger he shall welcome. But in the stark silence that comes over them where the only noise is that of their heaving breaths, Loki finally begins to understand. His eyes shut again and he crumples into himself as he fights for breath, as he fights for some sort of mercy when there is none.

"Odin is dead," Loki says, his tone little more than a raspy gasp, and then he hears Thor’s rough growl.

Thor knows he can’t touch him and even he is not fool enough to try. Instead, he stares, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. Loki sees it all: grief in the twist of his brows, anger in his clenched fists and sadness around the wrinkles of his eyes. Loki, in turn, is not foolish enough to relinquish this advantage even as his own skin burns him just as surely as Thor’s would be if touched by his monstrous hands.

"Thor, I…"

"Loki, Norns forgive me, what have you done?" Thor demands, tightens his stance, and for a moment it seems he will care little if he’s burned.

"I…" Loki tries, but his voice is caught again and he feels -

He feels as if he should tear at this skin, peel it off. He aches to grip this flesh that isn’t his and make it _go away_. He wants to scream, he wants to –

Thor advances, but he does not touch. Loki falls back and he sees Thor means to say something else, can imagine what it is.

He doesn’t want to hear it.

Not right now.

He knows all of it already. He knows how pathetic he is. He knows how cowardly he is.

_Please, Thor…_

"I’m sorry." Loki says, the last syllable fading along with his form.

***

Loki lands in New York, but just barely. He was foolish to even try it considering his panicked and frayed mind but in his haste to get away from Thor he could not think of anything else to do.

_Don’t panic._

_Don’t panic._

And yet his heart beats a thundering noise in his chest and his lungs ache for every intake of breath.

He could have died like this, Loki’s mind helpfully supplies, a myriad of accidents running over each other in his mind.

_But you didn’t._

_You’re still alive._

The thought should not sadden him nor taste like ash in his mouth, but it does. He tries to cast a glamour and at first he fails, his monstrous skin a terrible cloak he can not untagle from his shoulders. Loki closes his eyes and tries his best to sipphon whatever energy he has left into this important trick.

She can’t get her hair right on her second try, or her clothes, but she does well with the face, she thinks, as she can no longer feel the rough ridges of Jotun skin. For a moment she is relieved, but when she opens her eyes she finds that the altered sight has not vanished for the glamour. The ways she sees now is different, and her eyes hurt for the afternoon light.

Vera takes a mirror from her pocket dimension and brings it up as she feels her heart enveloped in the cold.

The glaring red greets her, so misplaced, even more monstrous now that there is no Jotun skin to match it. She feels her heart beat, hears blood rushing in her ears as even the stale New York air seems to dissipate. Vera tries to concentrate, to find that center within her mind where the core of her power lies.

_Vera’s eyes are blue._

_Vera’s eyes are blue._

_Vera’s eyes are blue._

Vera takes her time to inhale and exhale deeply. Once, twice, and then once more. Her heart has calmed none, but when she looks back into the small handheld mirror she finds her breath again. The Jotun sight is not gone, and she squints at the sunlight, but at least it’s hidden now.

Intending to waste no more time Vera rushes to the shelter and sees that there are two vehicles parked outside. One of them is big and white with red accents, and the other blue and white with shifting red lights on its top. Vera knows what this means. She knows she’s too late.

Maria is outside, speaking to a uniformed man. Vera can hear her clearly, even from this distance.

"I don’t know where he is," Maria says, her hand at her forehead and then thrown in frustration, "When I called the ambulance he was in his bed. He wasn’t breathing, he wasn’t moving, he can’t have gone anywhere!"

The man she’s speaking to seems annoyed, Vera notes. He’s writing something down in his little book, but he’s clearly preparing to leave. The big white van leaves first, and then the blue and white car follows. Maria stays to see them leave, her troubled expression fading none.

"Oh Vera, I’m so sorry," Maria says when she spots her, "Vera? You look… different somehow."

Loki feels cold sweat wash over him, wonders what he’s done wrong, wonders if it’s his monstrous eyes that have lost their cover of blue, wonders if it’s his voice, or his posture -

"I, ah, what do you mean?"

Maria shakes her head, blinks, "Oh, never mind. I just… no, never mind. I’m sorry, Vera. He’s… John’s dead. I would’ve called but it said your phone number is no longer in use."

Vera says it doesn’t matter, that she is here now, and she acts appropriately devastated, as Maria leads her to Odin’s room. Loki doesn’t think about why this act is so easy, why a small gathering of tears has appeared so swiftly in his eyes, and why air still has trouble entering his lungs.

While passing through the hallway, Vera spots the other residents in the main hall. She has somewhat of an idea as to why the all look so sad, but she can hardly reconcile it with what she knows of the man. Hardly as friendly as Thor, Odin had never shown too much warmth to anyone, let alone someone who isn’t even family.

"They all loved him," Maria says, as if on cue, and Vera hears her sniffle, "Oh, I’m so sorry. I keep almost crying when I know damn well not to, not here."

"You can cry in front of me, Maria," Vera says, "I don’t mind."

Maria smiles, and Vera tries her best not to let that affect her. She doesn’t quite succeed, and she fails entirely when Maria’s tears do finally fall.

"I don’t know where he is," she says, rubbing at her eyes, "I… oh, in all my years here, I’ve never lost sight of anyone. And who would have taken him? I haven’t seen anyone come in or out… "

"It’s alright," Vera says, once they reach his room, "I’ll see what I can find."

Maria is so grateful, Vera can’t hold back her own smile even as her insides twist and twist. She wants to reach out to Maria, to pat her shoulder at least, but she knows she can’t. Her glamour is not as strong or as deep as it usually is. Her touch might burn, or it might not, but she finds she has no desire to find out.

"Maria… " Vera says, reluctant to go in yet, "Are you certain he… "

"Yes," Maria says, "Yes. He wasn’t breathing and his body was so stiff… ah, I’ve seen what death looks like, Vera. Many more times than I’d like."

"So have I," Vera says, her Jotun eyes revealing quite a bit to her when she finally dares to enter the room.

The room’s solitary window does little to illuminate the room for it’s turned east, but her sight doesn’t mind the darkness now. The colors are different, the shapes molded by a new specter of seeing. There are particles in the air of something that isn’t dust. They’re bigger, and even without direct light they glow.

"Maria, what do you see?" Vera asks, forgoing caution.

"Vera?" Maria asks, looks around, "It’s just a room. He’s not here, I told you. Oh, help me Santa Maria… "

Vera takes a deep breath and she gathers focus better. This room has always smelled of magic, of Odin’s magic, but now it smells of something else too. The scent is faint, but it is dry and cold, a smell one would find in a deep dark cavern. She sees that the particles are fading gradually so in a daze of sorts she tries to catch one, heedless of Maria’s presence. Her gasp is covered by what Vera sees next.

Winds rush at her and the smell grows stronger. She’s still in the room but a part of her is elsewhere. There’s that voice, the one she so fears, calling to her. The smell of Helheim’s decaying world overwhelms her and she nearly falls to her knees as Loki’s fears are confirmed.

Death has indeed found the Allfather.

Vera drops the spell, the particles dissipate, and all that is left is Loki, shivering with dread as he struggles to keep the barest elements of his glamour, and Maria, who now looks at him as she should have from the beginning.

The woman backs away, fear in her wide brown eyes. Loki accepts it. It is as it always should be. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, the end is always the same. His own fear pales in comparison to the one he spreads with his every monstrous breath, with his every monstrous movement.

"You are not human, are you, Vera?"

"No," Loki manages as he backs away as far as he can within the small space.

"What are you, then?"

"I don’t know."

There’s a lump in his throat all of a sudden and his eyes fill with tears. This glamour is siphoning out the last of his strength so he lets it fall completely. Maria is so strong, Loki thinks, for she does not scream when she sees the truth behind the trick of a pleasant face. She doesn’t balk at the blue of his skin, she doesn’t condemn him for the color of his eyes.

All she does is so quiet, so void of hatred.

Maria closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, and then opens them again. She manages a small smile as she nods to herself.

"Vera," Maria says, "That is not your name either, is it?"

"Every name…" Loki begins, shakes his head as something deep inside him aches for the truth of what he’s about to reveal, "I have many names. Every name I choose is my own."

"Alright," Maria says, "Vera it is then."

"What?" Loki snaps, without really meaning to. His heart is now in quite a different grip, but the familiar desire to flee is back, "How... do you not see me?!" He spits, gestures to all of himself.

"I see you just fine, Vera."

"I…" Loki stammers, "I’m a monster, Maria."

"That’s quite a thing to say," Maria comments, "I don’t think monsters normally spend their time taking care of the elderly or help out overworked women like myself."

"I’m not her," Loki says, as if he has to explain it.

But Maria doesn’t budge, "I have little time for bullshit in my old age," she says, strangely stern, "All of your chosen names are yours. Does that not mean that you are all of the people who own those names?"

She moves for him, her old hand outstretched. Tense as he is, Loki barely manages to fall back. Maria doesn’t move farther than where she stopped, some sort of pitying look in her eyes now.

"Alright," she says, "Vera, I won’t say anything else. I won’t ask anything. I won’t tell anyone anything. You’re free to go."

She gestures to the open door. The first thing Loki’s mind thinks of is a trap, urges him not to turn his back to her.

But Vera knows different.

Vera knows Maria.

She is a strong woman with a strong voice. But she is also a kind woman, a woman who would offer a smile to a stranger, who would extended her hand to a monster.

Loki crumbles under the weight of what he’s seen, the weight of what he knows, the weight of what he’s since learned, and under Maria’s caring gaze.

When Loki makes no move to leave, Maria sighs, "John. He wasn’t human either."

"No."

Maria simply nods again, "He… he is in some sort of danger, isn’t he?"

Loki debates telling her the whole truth, but there is no real benefit in telling this kind woman that her world is hurtling towards destruction when he can’t offer her either hope or salvation.

So instead he says this, "I will find him. I promise."

Even though Maria is seemingly satisfied with this, as ridiculous as it is that she would be, Loki still isn’t. There’s a gnawing feeling in his chest and it only spreads the longer he looks at this strange human woman.

"I’m sorry Maria," Loki says, "I wasn’t here for the others, I wasn’t truly here to help. I was only here for my - for _him_."

Maria’s gaze does not shift, nor does her expression fall, "But you did help, like it or not." she says, "Vera, intent does matter but sometimes you might find good in yourself regardless of where you began. Sometimes we find our path, our purpose, where we least expect it."

"My purpose," Loki sighs, "Has always been death and decay. My path is a narrow line to Helheim."

"Helheim?" Maria says, thinking it over for a second before her eyes widen in understanding, "Ah, no, Vera. Hell is for evil people, for those who are without morals and corrupt. I’ve known people like that. Trust me, Vera, you are not evil."

Loki almost laughs. How could he not? Before he can rebuke such a ridiculous statement, he sees Maria’s eyes widen in fear and when he looks down he sees light below him. A portal of some kind, opening.

"Step back!" Loki manages before the portal grips him.

The last thing he sees is Maria’s outstretched hand he dares not take as Maria’s desperate yell fades above him.

*** 

He is falling. The air is rushing through him as the scent of magic grows. He thinks he might never stop falling. The rush of such complete lack of control overwhelms him and he’s thrust back onto the broken Bifrost, gazing into the eye of Odin, below him the shattered abyss of their Universe.

He was so certain he would die and there isn’t a time when he doesn’t regret that he didn’t.

Blinded by a burst of light, Loki finally lands. Once he does, his gaze darts around, frantic, wondering if this isn’t the Mad Titan’s lair. It certainly isn’t Helheim, for there is no smell of rot, and there are no harsh winds. The space is warm and brown, a wood of some sort all around him, and beyond the burst of light the room is dim.

It doesn’t look like the Mad Titan’s lair either, then again, Mad Titans redecorate surely?

Once the initial rush of landing fades, Loki tries to move but finds he can not. For a second he thinks he might be dreaming, another of the many nightmares that have plagued him for so long.

He finds he can move his hands at least, and his feet, though he can’t unstick himself from the floor, or the wall he’s leaning onto. The smell of magic radiates through this strange space and Loki wonders whose prey he is now.

He doesn’t have to wonder long.

The fact that he didn’t even see the being in the shadows irks at Loki, though his fear is still stronger and so he tries and fails to move as the figure approaches. There’s a cloak billowing behind the floating figure, and when they finally banish the darkness around them Loki sees a specter of color so magnificent he knows immediately that this being, whoever or whatever it is, is incredibly powerful.

Only then does Loki notice the thing that shines brightest of all.

The Time Stone dangles off of the being's neck, cast into a gaudy pendant. The power of such an object in such a close proximity to his own, though hidden, is so strong he’s certain this floating being can feel it to.

"You’ve been travelling across Earth. What is your business here?"

Midgard.

He’s still on Midgard.

Loki breathes a sigh of relief.

"I was just visiting," Loki says, "I haven’t done anything."

"I see," the man says, "With the kind of magic you exude, I’m having a hard time believing your presence here is a mere visit.

"Believe what you will," Loki says, "But I assure you, I am not dangerous. If you release me, I will leave."

The man hums, looks him over.

Loki grimaces, wonders why this strange person won’t just get to the point, but then he feels his limbs relax and his back bend as he’s pulled forward, able to move again. Loki gets up instantly, takes a guarded stance.

"Relax," the man says, hands up in some sort of a peaceful gesture, Loki assumes, "We should talk. If you’re as harmless as you claim, I’m sure you’ll have no issue answering a few questions."

Hardly foolish enough to anger someone so powerful, Loki is nevertheless just irritated enough to ask, "And who are you to ask me questions?"

"I’m Stephen Strange." the man says, "I’ve been tracking a surge of magical activity around a few places on Earth, but I’ve only now been able to catch you. It _was_ you, wasn’t it? I hope there isn’t more…"

"It’s just me," Loki says, perhaps too quick to say it, "It is. As I said, I’m not here to harm any Midgardian."

"Hmm… " Stephen Strange hums, "Well, you must have a reason for a visit. Or, rather, visits. I’d simply like to know why now, why those particular places… "

"I understand," Loki says, "You’re some sort of a protector of this planet. At least, you may feel you are."

"It is an honor bestowed upon me. I did not take it."

"Of course," Loki allows, knows now that this is the man Thor spoke of, and is likely the man who gave Thor the spell to protect his home on Midgard, "Well, you see, I’m a researcher on my planet. I deal with sociology of various species and I was interested in studying your people but I haven’t meddled in your affairs overly."

"You’re a… researcher?" Stephen Strange questions, looking over Loki dubiously.

Likely, the man is simply having trouble believing that a monster such as this would ever take on a noble and peaceful profession. Loki doesn’t think he knows much, if anything, of the Jotnar, but his appearance must be enough to sway his opinion.

Loki is skilled enough at reading people, anyway. His lie has not been bought, but before he can continue to spin his story in a less unfavorable direction, a familiar voice bathes him in cold sweat.

"I told you, friend Stephen," Thor says as he staggers down the stairs, "All my brother does is lie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: the amazingly talented @wnnbdarklord <3 <3 <3


	5. The Leaves of Yggdrasil

Thor has something on his hands. Some sort of armor, and Loki realizes immediately who it belongs to. For lack of his hammer, which was surely left with Tony Stark, the man has equipped Thor with some of his own technology.

Loki would be flattered by the effort, but in his precarious situation all he can do is freeze.

Reeling still from all that has happened, from the falling, from this house filled with magic and Thor’s hateful gaze, Loki grits his teeth as his back meets the wall once more.

"What do you suggest we do with him?" Stephen Strange asks, and at once Loki’s fire is awake.

"Do with me?" he spits, "As if you could do anything to me!"

Frazzled, Loki nevertheless tries to escape, searches for an opening, but he finds none. The same thing that had him in its hold before is now preventing him from using his magic. Loki can feel that it won’t last, this trap he’s found himself in, but somehow he thinks that it doesn’t matter.

Thor advances on him, protected from Loki’s cursed skin by Stark’s armor.

"Loki… I truly thought," Thor says, shakes his head, "I was certain my opinion of you could not fall lower. I’ve mourned you, Loki, I’ve lost myself in guilt and sorrow. How could you do that to me? How could you lie to me?"

"Thor…"

"You’ve used my loneliness, my sorrow, against me," Thor says, as his armored hands form fists.

Loki stares at Thor, his grimace and the sadness in his eyes that loses ever so quickly against rage. He’s learned many things over his long life and one thing that still stands true, something he’s of late forgot but must not let himself forget now, is this: Thor’s anger is a tidal wave he must not allow himself to be swept in.

He pushes Thor away as far as he can with his dampened magic, and he tries again to escape. He flickers this time, the power of the Tesseract combating whatever spell has been thrown around him.

But it’s not enough, not yet.

Thor growls, advances again, and in the next few moments Loki sees the destruction of Stephen Strange’s magical home. Thor’s punches are nearly as strong as before, but his year of isolation and sedentary living have made him slower. Loki jumps easily out of the reach of his blows, but they do connect with the myriad of things around them, shattering them effortlessly. Loki evades Thor as best as he can and is as irritated at Thor as Thor is with him.

Eventually, Thor does land a punch and Loki slips and falls, summons whatever energy he has left while distant thunder roars.

Strange stops them then, catches them unawares for long enough to separate them with his portals. Loki tumbles down onto the other side of the room, gasps for the feeling of being transported so suddenly. Thor fares no better, though he gets up quicker.

Before he can advance once more, Stephen Strange stops him by placing his hand on Thor’s shoulder.

"Please, this house means a great deal to me," Stephen Strange says, and to that Thor demands, "Then transport us somewhere else!"

"I don’t think that’s a good idea."

Loki rolls his eyes, gathers his bearings, and flickers again. This time he sees his destination for a few seconds before he’s thrown back. Thor hasn’t calmed down, and so it’s his voice that greets him when he returns.

"All you do is run!" he yells, "You’ve done such foul things and now you would run, like a coward -"

"And what of you?" Loki spits back, "What of your own cowardice? You’ve left Asgard to wallow in your pain, you’ve left them all defenseless against the Mad Titan!"

"Asgard is hardly defenseless, Loki," Thor says, "You’d know that, if you’d ever truly felt for it as I do."

Loki laughs, can’t help it. The sound bubbles out of him like bitter poison, "I don’t feel for Asgard? I was there Thor, all this time, I was there! I was…"

_Ah, damn it._

"Loki," Thor says, "Explain yourself."

When Loki doesn’t, Thor’s expression falls from anger back to that familiar sadness, "You would not tell me the truth, even now? Never mind," he adds, waves him off, "I already suspect what it is you’ve done though for the life of me I do not understand why."

Loki realizes he’s lost. The bitter feeling ebbs into nausea and he wonders wildly at his own foolishness.

There was so much time to escape, so many things he could have done, so many places he could have gone to. He should have hidden, like the cursed thing he is, and then there would possibly still be something of him left to truly mourn.

Thor offers him a crooked smile, his tone full of smug resentment, "Hogun was the most suspicious. When _Odin_ asked for them to separate they came to me. Their doubts, their concerns, they spoke of it all. Their king has been behaving strangely, they said. There is a sweat upon his brow when faced with the court, a tense grip to his elderly hands, a voice lacking the power of the all knowing father."

He sighs, "Trivial things, aren’t they, brother? Even kings fall to age. But when you’ve learnt of my state, Loki, and you commanded them to leave Asgard to fight on far away planets, they saw in your eyes the truth: how not even the grief their king might feel for the death of the queen and the loss of his second son could explain the terror in his eyes and the disdain in his tone for his firstborn."

Loki shivers under Thor’s gaze, his words confirming his own suspicions he’d near but assigned to common paranoia. One more mistake, Loki thinks, is the final drop of water hitting the overflowing barrel.

"And what now?" Loki asks, spreads his arms, "Shall I kneel so you may relieve me of my head?"

"No need," Thor says, "All I want from you now is the truth. Tell me, Loki, what possessed you to begin this foolish game?"

Loki sighs, the ends of his lips crooking up, "Ah, what can I say? The Great Thor evaded his birthright so I thought to myself, why not try once more? Third time may be the charm, as Midgardian’s say, but a second attempt is…"

"Loki," Thor snaps, "Why did you deceive me? I realize we have had many differences and I realize I’ve… I might have lost you long ago. But I mourned you, Loki, I cried for your absence, my own heart grew heavier and heavier. And now you would jest, now you would evade me once more."

"What does it matter, Thor?" Loki asks, feels his own patience begin to dwindle, "The crime of impersonating a king is death. Do away with me, I’m ready."

Loki spreads his arms wider for good measure, lifts his chin up in surrender, but all Thor does is stand there. Naturally, the insufferable oaf would not do him even this one last kindness, to die by the blade of his once kin rather than be crushed by the Mad Titan’s own hands.

"I will not slay you, Loki," Thor says, and Loki hears the clang of Stark’s armor separating itself from Thor’s arms.

"Why not?!" Loki demands, exasperated, "You _said_ you would. And I _believed_ you, I _still_ believe you! Do it! Don’t you see me now, finally, truly? You’ve caught the monster, Thor, this is the end!"

"This is not the end, Loki," Thor says, "I’ve seen what our end will look like and I intend to stop it, though I’ve yet to decide whether the honor of fighting this battle will be bestowed upon you too."

Loki bristles at this, wonders why Thor is suddenly so unwilling to hurt him, but then Stephen Strange finally speaks and Loki’s intent to anger Thor further is thus halted.

"I can’t keep him here forever," he says, to which Thor simply shrugs, "I’ve sent for reinforcements. Wanda will be here soon."

Before Loki can ask who this Wanda person is, Thor says, with finality, "I must go. There is much to be done."

Loki growls then, tired of being discussed so brazenly, "Thor, you will not imprison me again! Kill me rather, kill me _now_ you damned coward!"

"Your thirst for death may yet be quenched, brother," Thor says, grief creeping back into his expression, "Until then, the Avengers and I will deal with whatever is coming."

"I see," Loki says, crosses his arms, "Well then, if Death happens to grip you _first_ you may send your regards to Odin. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the thought…"

To this, Thor’s calm demeanor vanishes. Loki doesn’t know if Thor has felt his father’s soul taken to rot away in the cold vastness of Helheim, or even if he thinks Loki himself has somehow killed him. Either way, Loki is privately satisfied that Thor’s true nature shines so predictably.

What Loki doesn’t expect is the brightness of Stephen Strange’s portal as it encompasses his brother’s advancing form. In a moment more he vanishes, and Stephen Strange exhales a breath of relief.

"I assumed my role on Earth would invite violence," he says, "But I do need a place to live."

Loki himself intends to waste no more time and so he tries to teleport away again but is captured in Stephen Strange’s portal. He doesn’t land anywhere, instead he is tossed back and forth, the motion of this kind of travelling making him both dizzy and unable to concentrate for long enough to break it and escape.

When it’s over, Loki lands once more on the floor of Stephen Strange’s now well despised home, and then the entrance doors open and a woman enters, glancing around until her eyes settle on them. She is clad in red, her dark skin in contrast to her glowing aura. Loki can sense a mighty power from her and he has no doubts that she will do whatever Thor asks and do so easily, given how weak and spent Loki himself is.

The woman makes a motion with her hands and a bright red light is the last thing Loki sees.

***

He wakes up and all he sees is darkness. Endless stifling unbearable darkness. The voices inside this non-space haunt him, their whispers as biting as the teeth of any wild beast. Their cruel words pierce his flesh, his mind, his very self.

"Who are you?" the voices demand, mocking as they do, "Who are you really?"

He doesn’t know.

He thinks this might be death in some form or another, but it is nothing like the stories he was told. There are no harsh winds, no dry ground, no gray skies. There is only the darkness, the black nothingness.

At least, it is so in the beginning.

Eventually, he begins to see shapes and then colors and then -

"Mother?"

Her flowing robe washes over him, her hands close and warm and nearly real. Her voice sounds from a distance, muted. It seems as though she’s moving away from him but he doesn’t want that. No, he can't stand the sight, can't bear it.

"Mother!"

But she doesn’t respond. Her soft voice fades and he finally hears wind, its harsh sound ripping through this strange place. He shivers, tries to raise his hands up to protect his eyes but finds he can not.

He is trapped, somehow, he realizes.

_For how long?_

"Who are you?" the voices keep insisting but his mind can not oblige them.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he understands soon enough that he is not dead. At least, not unless this too is a torture of Helheim, a stabbing feeling of hunger and the scraping of his parched throat. He shivers anew and doesn’t stop until a light of some sort breaks through the darkness.

He knows who this is, the crackling of lightning signaling his undeniable presence, but when he tries to call for him he finds he has lost his voice.

This must be Helheim, he thinks, it must be.

Except, the longer he is inside this darkness the more he remembers. Past the point of seeing shapes and colors and people, he sees a face of pure terror staring him down from his magnificent throne. This being is more powerful than any he’s encountered in his long life and he can’t -

"I can’t fight him." he says, pleads to the silent darkness, "I can’t. Not alone… "

_But you are alone._

_Traitor._

_Monster._

Next thing he knows, he can move his hands. Before him appears the steely blue, the monstrous black claws that seem to grow and grow. He screams into this empty vacuous space but no sound travels past his lips. He screams and screams and in the end he calls for all the names he knows, calls for them with all his might.

Somebody must be here, in this terrible place, somebody who could help.

_Nobody would help you._

_You’re worthless._

_You’re a stain on Asgard’s glory._

All at once, he remembers. For a moment he thinks to affirm this, if even just to himself, but then something tells him to stop.

Do not reveal your name, something inside him tells him.

_If you don’t, this place will become your permanent home._

He refuses, and the cycle continues until finally it breaks as he does, shatters into a million pieces, and Loki loses what little of himself he has left.

Whatever the Other wants to hear, Loki says. He’s already given his name, broken under the spell, so the only way right then was forward. What this madness is, Loki hasn’t the name for, not yet, not as isolated as he’d been.

But there does come a time for him to understand, and the Other is there to guide him.

The Mad Titan relishes his stature, his power, looming over others with his towering height, the proud way he stands with his back perfectly straight and his chin held high a testament to what he knows himself to be.

"Loki Odinson," the Mad Titan says, "Loki Laufeyson. I see such anger in you. I can feel it, I can smell it. How it burns and burns inside of you. This fire, it exists in all of my children."

"I’m not a child," Loki says, unable to resist such a feeble attempt at defiance.

But the Titan doesn’t seem to care nor does he call for the Other to take him back to his cell. Instead, the Mad Titan rises from his chair and gently places his hand upon Loki’s forehead and then his shoulder, like a father might do to an unruly child.

"I see your need for guidance," the Titan says, "Your need for discipline, as well as your need for power. This hunger too, it is something we could both use, don’t you think?"

"What do you mean?" Loki dares ask, seeing the gleam in the Mad Titan’s eyes and enjoying it not one bit.

"I need something," the Mad Titan says, "And you want something. Both, as it turns out, are on Earth, as the species calls it. This small planet is filled with such insignificant little creatures and yet still your brother calls himself their protector."

"You know my brother?"

"I know _of_ him," the Mad Titan says, "And I also know you would do anything at all to prove your worth. So why not there? They need someone to rule them, to lead them, to show them the way."

Loki wants almost nothing less than to go there again. And yet, The Titan’s words stir a kind of fire in him, this sense that there is still somewhere to point his rage towards and his offer sounds much better anyway than being forced to stay here with him.

"But you want something for it," Loki asks, "What is it?"

"An infinity stone," the Mad Titan offers easily, "You see, these stones, they hold great power and there is simply no reason for one to be stuck on such a lowly planet with creatures that do not know how to use them."

The Mad Titan brandishes his golden glove and Loki sees that he is not short of power already.

"I would share this power with you, worry not," the Mad Titan says, "Your magic is strong and there is power in you, great power. You have the chance now to prove you’re worthy."

"I don’t think I have a choice," Loki says, sees plainly that he’s testing the madman’s goodwill, "If I say no, will I be enspelled again?"

"That’s still a choice, the way I see it," the Mad Titan says, "There is no shortage of space here, Loki, for silent contemplation. If that is what you’d prefer."

"I would prefer…" Loki says, looks up at the Mad Titan as his mind echoes the sounds of the fall and the darkness and the shadows that have been cast upon his life, "I would prefer to be of service. To you."

The Mad Titan is pleased, and so begins Loki’s new life.

He sheds not a tear at the horrors he sees as the planets the Mad Titan conquers easily and with no remorse crumble against his army, doesn’t flinch at the cries of the living and the red around the dead. He doesn’t cry justice when he is punished for not being harsh enough, brutal enough, fast enough to respond to orders barked at him from The Titan’s children. He doesn’t defy when he is made to use his magic for tortures even he would not have been creative enough to invent.

Then one day, finally, the Mad Titan’s promise leads Loki to his chambers. There, the Mad Titan greets him warmly and behind him Loki sees the Mind Stone cast into a silver scepter.

"You’ve lived many lives, Loki," the Titan says, "But it is only now you’ve found your path, your purpose. Here, with me. With us. Glory awaits us where we go."

Loki wonders where this glory lies, if it is within The Titan’s deceitful praise, or in his ego driven pursuit of eternal peace. Nevertheless, Loki does not defy this time either.

What Loki wants in this moment is relief. Relief from pain, relief from the dark empty non-space that waited for him whenever he failed. But, most of all, what he wants now is the power he’d been promised. He wants to be strong, he wants to be better, so that he can never again be made to feel less than.

The Mad Titan calls it justice, when in reality it’s just revenge. Further still, it’s neither of those things. Loki is lost and the Titan is mad. His madness spreads and consumes all in its path and Loki doesn’t want to be swept in it. He wants to prove that he is worthy to stand upright and be bathed in glory, however flimsy this glory’s light may be.

_But do you really?_

_His madness has long since spread._

Loki ignores the voice as he follows the Mad Titan towards the scepter, where it lays secured in magical bonds.

_You don’t want this._

_You’re a pathetic child left alone to die._

"Infinity awaits," the Mad Titan says, "And its power is ours to take. Do not disappoint me, Loki."

_He will cast you back into the dark._

_Don’t trust him._

"Thank you," Loki says, deferent and humble, "Thank you for this opportunity to prove my worth. I will not fail you."

When the Mad Titan hands him the scepter, the stone that has been cast into it gleaming a bright blue, Loki finally finds relief.

His goal becomes so clear, so bright, as bright as the stone itself, and he has no mind to wonder at this sudden change. The Mad Titan looks at him with expectation and even somewhat with pride, while Loki’s heart soars for the burst of power that springs from his fingertips.

The voice in his head is finally quiet.

When next he blinks, he is in his bed. Asgard’s suns light up his room in a golden glow and the softness of his bedding makes him unwilling to rise. The day is bright and full of wonder, but all Loki wishes is to bury his face in his expensive covers and disappear, if only for a moment, from this great shame that has befallen him.

He doesn’t know how long he has stayed so hidden when the doors creaking open rouse him from his self imposed darkness and the soft flowery scent of his mother wakes him up fully. She enters with little noise, her overclothes billowing in the wind drifting through open windows.

"Loki," she calls, but all Loki does is hide into the covers further.

He feels her hand on his shoulder, a sweet and gentle caress, "Loki, I heard what happened. You should pay it no mind."

Loki wants to argue that he can hardly forget the mocking gaze of the other children as he lost to Thor in a spar yet again, how their laughter echoed in his ears long past the fight ending, how their whispered voices followed him through the hallways along with Thor’s booming laughter and careless cheer.

No, he can’t argue.

His mother doesn’t like it when he cries, nor does she like it when he yells. He is as brave as Thor, she often says, and she knows he is just as strong. Strong and brave boys are warriors and warriors do not cry or fall to feeling as easily as Loki sometimes does.

So Loki uncovers himself, wipes his shameful tears, and offers his mother a small smile as it is all he can manage.

"That’s it, Loki," his mother says, her caress moving to his hair, "See? Nothing at all to cry about."

She says it all with a soft smile, and Loki can not help but agree. His mother is tough on him sometimes, but at least she looks at him, at least she speaks to him, at least she teaches him her own skills with blades and magic.

Loki can’t recall when his father stopped speaking to him in the same way he did Thor, in the way he did for both of them when they were younger. Something has changed and Loki doesn’t understand what. He had asked his mother once why his father has grown so distant from him but all she had to say was that his father is an old man who can no longer quite keep up with his boys.

But Loki has seen their father spar with Thor, argue with Thor, teach Thor; he did not appear so old to him then.

He’d asked about this too but had gained a similar answer. Thor is meant for the throne as he is older and therefore his training must be conducted by the king himself.

Loki understands, of course he does, and yet that doesn’t banish the sense of discomfort he feels when his father’s eyes find him, bottomless and cold. It doesn’t change the fear he sometimes feels at night when he begins to feel cold and can swear he can hear wind beating at him as if he’s laying outside unsheltered and unprotected. It doesn’t change the fact that he misses the games of strategy his father and him used to play together. He was the best at them, better even than Thor.

This too, he has lost.

Youth carries with it a certain vigor small children do not possess and elders sometimes lose for the weight of years lived. Thor and Loki travel together, a pair yet unmatched by any monster or any beast they’ve encountered.

Volstagg and Fandral follow dutifully behind as they hunt their dinner, a giant moose whose steps they’d been tracking. Fandral’s hunting skills are clumsy but he’s silent enough. Volstagg, however, does not understand the meaning of quiet nor does he bother to temper his steps.

Thor is ways ahead of them and Loki knows this prey, like every other, will be his. Still, when Volstagg steps on a branch and the sound seems to echo around them for the otherwise silent space, Loki casts a spell.

Later, once the moose is caught and they’d dined, Volstagg throws a bone to Loki’s plate, a smirk under his developing beard.

"Mighty sorcerer," he says, "I’d urge you not to throw your spells at me."

Thor asks about it, but all Loki does is shrug. He’s satisfied even with Volstagg’s anger, for he has no desire to make this trip comfortable for him.

"I can’t be in a group with a witch," Volstagg mutters, "Who knows what could possess him? If you think my loud steps are a problem just you wait…"

"Loud steps?" Thor asks, to which Fandral replies, "Loki threw a silencing spell on this big lumbering friend of ours so the moose would not hear us and run."

Thor laughs at this and he keeps laughing far beyond anyone’s comfort, except of course for Loki’s.

"Oh," Thor says, wiping his eye, "I did notice you grew rather silent, friend Volstagg."

Volstagg’s eyes feel poised to kill but Loki is confident enough in his skills that he feels no fear. And, even if he did, he knows Thor will have his back no matter what. This has been true, always, and true in turn as well.

That night, the group recounts wondrous stories of the once king Bor, their ancestors and their accomplishments in battle. Volstagg’s voice carries over trees and distances yet untraversed as he speaks of hordes of men whose honor carried them into the great halls of Valhalla. This in contrast to Fandral’s soft lascivious tones as he recounts tales of affairs, curses and love spells.

Then, Thor’s turn comes.

As always, everyone waits for this moment, for their leader to choose a tale and tell it. Loki knows he can spin a better tale than even his brother, but he listens quietly nonetheless.

"Friends, brother," Thor begins, solemn, "I shall speak of a tale told to me by my father. This tale has been told to him by his own father, the Great King Bor."

All pairs of eyes around their campfire turn to Thor as he prepares to tell this tale. They’ve certainly heard it before, but Thor always changes little details for their own amusement.

"It was a dark night in Jotunheim. The war had ravaged its lands and squadrons of Asgardian soldiers lay in hiding, beaten by the Jotnar and the harsh winter. Among them was the Great King Bor, who saw that his soldiers might not survive the night, let alone many that will still follow."

Thor takes appropriate pauses, waits for the tension to build up. Loki would have things to say as to Thor’s diction, though he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"You see, friends, the Great King had heard tales of the Garden, hidden inside a great stone wall. There, the harsh winds of Jotunheim’s eternal winter had been transformed into a spring breeze. The stone had given way to earth in which many a plant grew. This great feat had been achieved by magic, for a powerful magic wielder had made this place their home."

"Magic," Volstagg scoffs, "I heard if you eat a plant made by magic your skin rots and your teeth fall out."

"Hush," Fandral warns.

Thor is hardly bothered by the interruption, the opportunity to prolong this tale could only be welcome. Loki pretends he doesn’t feel his stomach twist at Volstagg’s purely ignorant words and he listens too, attentive and silent.

"The Great King found this place, but not without sacrifice. Not but the strongest of his soldiers made it, though they were doubtful that this place would help them. They were brave men, but magic, especially that of any Jotun, made their skin prick and their blood freeze. Ah, but they were, above all, loyal men, and so they followed their leader to the stone wall. When the Great King Bor asked for entrance, the Jotun inside let them in."

Thor takes time to catch his breath, "The Jotun knew the customary Asgardian greeting and so they learned their name as they bowed to each other. Angrboda, the protector of the garden. For as much as it can be said that Jotnar have females, this one looked not a thing like one. Big and broad, taller even than the Great King Bor, they say her muscles were indeed that of a giant and that there was not a trace of soft tissue on her chest."

"What a fine woman," Fandral jests and Volstagg laughs, "Indeed. Could bend you over and snap you like a bunt of dry twigs."

Thor laughs too, adds, "One wonders how such creatures mate, how does one know if one’s charming a lady or a man?"

"Then how did the soldiers know?" Loki asks, breaking the silence far more abruptly than he intended.

Thor waves him away and shrugs, "They simply knew. Now, to finish the tale. The Great King Bor was not a man who would beg or crawl on his knees as he was a man of great pride and strength. But he was also a man of great wisdom. He knew he had to pretend his supplication in order to receive shelter and so he presented himself and his soldiers as such, a pathetic sight indeed. The Jotun Angrboda allowed their stay, warning them not to touch anything in the Garden."

"But you see," Thor continues, lowering his voice, "The soldiers were hungry. They’d walked for three days to reach this place and all their rations had long since been spent. The Great King Bor fought for his soldiers’ food but Angrboda told him that not a thing in her garden comes without a price. Of course, the Great King would not have normally agreed to pay because Jotnar can not be trusted in matters of either honor or currency. However, starved and at the end of his strength, the Great King Bor relented and thus proposed a challenge: they would battle. The terms of the battle were as follows: If the Great King won his soldiers would gain access to food and water, but if the Jotun won, then the Great King would have to kneel before her and admit defeat as they became eternal prisoners of Angrboda’s garden."

"Cheers to the Great King Bor!" Volstagg says, bringing his canteen of ale up.

After the cheer, Thor says: "This battle was fought unfairly and with magic. The Great King Bor nearly lost but then he saw his soldiers cheering him on, standing beside him against the foul tricks of the Jotun. At once, the King’s yell called them into battle and so they won, leaving the Jotun on her knees before them."

Volstagg cheers again, and Thor smiles, "Indeed, the Great King Bor had won and therefore the Jotun lived to keep the garden flourishing and to supply them with their hard earned food."

"She didn’t honor her end of the deal, I assume," Fandral says, sipping his ale.

"Jotnar never do," Thor says, his expression darkening, "The Great King Bor was tired, you see, the battle had exhausted the last bit of strength he had left. That night he believed he would sleep soundly and rest well but it was not to be. Angrboda had been angered by his victory and so she weaved her magic against him in his sleep. She showed him his own end and the end of all things, frightening him so that in his wakeful state he had become frozen, his soldiers abandoned to her will."

"Foul trickery," Volstagg mutters.

Thor shakes his head in disdain, "Only some Jotnar wield magic but all magic that they wield is foul and evil."

Loki looks to the ground, sees the sparkles of their fire fall before him. When he looks back up there’s a mocking gaze pointed at him, the owner being Volstagg, his eyes almost glazed for the ale he has drunk.

"My magic is not like that," Loki says, wishes he could enchant Volstagg’s skin to itch without summoning his fists in turn.

"Of course it is not, Loki," Thor says, lifts his chin up with pride as he smacks Loki’s back, "You are an Asgardian warrior and a powerful sorcerer, not a common Jotun witch."

It is rare to hear such praise from Thor. Loki handles it well, he thinks, certainly does his best not to soften his hardened stance and his careful expression.

"Finish your story Thor," Fandral says, "I’d rather like to hear how the Great King Bor overcame his magical ailment."

The Great King Bor did wake from his frozen stupor, though Thor never fully explains how he managed such a feat. Regardless of Thor’s free changes, such as the number of soldiers, the appearance of the Garden, or the words he uses to describe the Jotun, the tale always ends the same.

The Great King Bor slays the Jotun Angrboda and leaves behind a decimated garden that had once been filled with life.

Some beings see Death, particularly on the battlefield, as a tragedy, while others see it as glory. There is a satisfaction in this concept of glory, if only because it quiets the screaming of the living for the absence of their kin.

Loki was of the inclination to call it glory, if only because this is the way of death when one lives in a culture of war. Celebration for a battle well fought and a wonderful feast to accompany the warrior’s brave crossing into the grand halls of Valhalla is but decoration to a deeper belief that Death is inevitable and thus must be welcomed.

After the battle on Svartalfheim, and the ages it seems since Thor has left him to his solitary decay, Loki finds that he is somehow still alive. The festering wound where he had been pierced had closed, and when he tries to move he finds he can do so only with some difficulty.

Something, or someone, doesn’t want him to die, Loki thinks wildly as he traces the spot where the wound was with shaking hands.

It is only when he hears that voice does he understand what has occurred. His lips crook into a pale smile almost against his will as he feels her touch, her rotting smell, where his once deadly wound had been.

"This was supposed to be my glory," Loki says, "My redemption."

"I thought you didn’t think you needed to be redeemed," she says, her voice a mere echo.

"I didn’t need it, _did_ I?" he asks himself, his hands yet unwilling to move from his stomach as they clutch the torn fabric, "Even if I did, what good will it do me now?"

There would have been no glory in his death, Loki thinks. Not really. Even if Thor tells someone other than their - than _his_ father - Loki is almost certain that, if anything, his death will only be a relief.

"Why?" he asks, desperate to know at least this, "Why did you reject me? Am I so foul, so utterly unworthy, that I do not deserve even the rot of Helheim?"

He can hear her laughter echo, her soft voice following like billowing silk, "Loki, Loki, Loki… your place with me is promised but it is not yet your time."

When next he screams his plea, she’s already gone. When he screams again at the sky above and the ground below, she does not respond.

Suddenly, Loki is overcome with fire and it burns inside him louder than the beating winds of Svartalfheim. He so wishes he could burn the whole planet from the inside out, destroy them all deeper than even the legendary conquests of the glorious Bor, and further he wishes he could send his fire to many a place where pieces of his soul lay scattered.

He knows he should run.

He knows he should find some far away nook and hide there.

And yet.

Loki finds he wants something else. There’s a new kind of fire burning inside him along with the old. The words of Death linger inside of him like squirming worms and he thinks of his place, he thinks of his fate.

_Your birthright was to die._

"Cast out onto a frozen rock," Loki says, wonders if this kind of suffering was meant for him instead.

There’s a sudden calm that befalls him then, the fire becoming but a simmer as his mind regains its strength and his thoughts lead him elsewhere again. He may have suffered and he may have failed many a time over but he is still alive and this could be his chance. Death’s promise may not matter if only he can prove that he is worthy.

Another chance, if he dares hope, that his death _can_ end in glory and that the gates of Valhalla would have a reason to open even for someone like him. There is a war coming, Loki knows, and at its helm is the Titan, mad for power and hungry for more. Who better to protect them, to protect everyone, than him?

The first time he’d been given that cursed throne he couldn’t do anything against others’ disdain for his rule for it was Loki, the outcast, sitting on the throne of Asgard.

Not this time. This time Odin will have never left his seat at all.

Loki travels in various forms of disguise from that wretched planet back to the closest spot he can find from which he himself can travel. He lands in Asgard’s hidden caves and there, he waits. The walls of the cave sing with the magic of Yggdrasil, a tune so familiar to him that it takes no effort at all to feel it, to welcome it.

The hum of the tree, the beating of its heart, tells Loki all he needs to know. Odin the King is growing weaker, old age something not even the Great Allfather can escape, and it is only a matter of time before Odin’s sleep becomes eternal.

In his state of rushed ecstasy, with the thrumming magic of the Tree of Life sparking beneath his skin, Loki only faintly feels a note of sadness creep into his hardened heart.

The wait takes a while, and it should take more if Loki wants to make certain that he is strong enough to take on the Great King, but there is precious little time to waste. Thor must still be on Midgard since Loki can’t sense his presence here but if he is still alive he might not stay away indefinitely.

Loki gathers his energy and his wits and he manifests inside Odin’s chambers. There, he finds the man alone in his bed. Either Heimdall or his ravens must have assured him that Thor is still alive, for if he wasn’t, Odin would have hardly even thought to sleep.

 _He wouldn’t lose much sleep over my death_ , Loki thinks bitterly.

"You’ve hidden yourself well," Odin says, startling him, "But your poisonous thoughts seep into my chambers as surely as water flows beneath them."

Loki doesn’t know if monsters like him should feel this kind of piercing pain, but he thinks they must not. This pain is merely uncertainty, Loki assures himself, to a scene an old part of him finds dissonant. This man is not his father, and he never was. The tone with which he speaks to him now is clear and appropriate for someone like him and is in many ways the truth revealed.

And if Odin so wishes to reveal the monster in his chambers, Loki thinks, then revealed the monster shall be.

"Heimdall has assured me of your death on Svartalfheim," Odin says, sighs, "I knew better. What is a mere stabbing to such a resistant force? I imagine your spite alone kept the blade from killing you."

Loki grins, shrugs, though he’d rather scream, "Ah, you know me so well. I simply couldn’t let myself die before you, _father_."

"Whatever your plan may be here, Loki," Odin says, "Rest assured it will fail."

"Perhaps," Loki allows, "But I see no harm in trying."

Odin fights against Loki’s spell, of course he does, but in his weakened state even the Great Allfather fails. Loki had already cast the beginnings of this spell within the confines of the Asgardian caves and it flows even now from Yggdrasil’s roots to its top, growing ever stronger for its desired target has been marked.

The Allfather’s ravens appear at his window as Odin’s eye loses its light. Their croaking grows insistent and aggressive with each passing second it takes for Loki’s spell to fully take hold but, Loki thinks as something like glee flows through him, they may croak as much as they like.

Loki has enspelled their king and so he enspells them too, turns them into harmless worms he then crushes with his feet. At his side, he conjures two identical birds and then he does a greater crime to himself.

Odin’s body is heavy and it is foreign, but Loki takes his likeness unto himself and he opens the door to his chambers just enough to peek through. Shaken and pale, he meets the guards who have so dutifully ran to their king for his raven’s croaking and he tells them all is well.

Odin’s word is always final, and so they leave.

Loki knows what to do next. There is hardly a better way for one to learn of others’ misfortune than for them to live it for themselves and so he strives to focus his mind on this and this alone, insecure thoughts and nostalgic feelings be damned. Loki takes off the uncomfortable glamour and exchanges it with something that will better blend in.

An old man in a wide-brimmed hat appears in a small alleyway in New York and there he leaves a gray once king, deep in slumber. Once the man wakes up he will know nothing of himself, nothing of his past, nothing of his present. Loki finds a nice rock, bounces it in his hand as it grows cold as ice, and then he places it into the pocket of the old man’s Midgardian rags.

There’s a shelter for Midgardian elders nearby and Loki makes certain that the woman who works there finds the man on her way there. The woman gathers the now waking man and she helps him into the building.

Farther than that, Loki doesn’t stay to see. There is work to be done, after all.

When Loki falls he falls truly and completely. Pieces of himself chip off and all that is left is his pain, his anger. This awful thing that burns and burns inside him, the poison he has so easily allowed to guide him filling his veins to the brim with despair.

Loki looks with the eyes of a child, stares into his hands where a blue cube is clutched tight, and he weeps his fear in droplets of water. From the corner of his eye he sees red and soon red is all he sees.

"Don’t take it away, please."

"It’s a beacon," the figure says, "You know that."

"It’s the only thing that keeps me safe!" he argues, clutching the cube with all his might, "Without it I’m trapped, I’m helpless, I’m lost… _please_ don’t take it."

The red figure vanishes but there is a new kind of red awash within the darkness and the voices that echo around him. Their stories are cruel and their tone mocks him. However much he tries not to listen, to shut his hearing from them, they are hidden inside him and they don’t go away.

They remind him of his lot in life, his worthless existence that has caused nothing but destruction and pain. This existence that was never supposed to be, the life that should have faded and fallen into the dry dirt of Helheim, but had for some reason been spared thrice over.

"I was meant to die," he says to himself, sees the red figure again somewhere to his side, "I was cast out. I was _meant_ to _die_. It’s so simple… so then why am I still here?"

The red figure doesn’t respond. When he tries to focus on it he finds his sight blurred before him.

"I know of this kind of torture," he says, "You’re not the first to show me my many failings and I am certain you won’t be the last."

The child is no longer there, and neither is the blue. The cube has vanished and all that is left is him, a blurred figure much like the figure clad in red. His own mind has trouble settling into a solid form, standing somewhere between his many other bodies, his many other lives and his many other lies.

"I don’t… oh," the red figure says, "Normally, people don’t see me. And I don’t… I don’t do this unless I have to."

"I understand," he says, "War makes criminals of us all."

The red figure does not appreciate his words, that much he can tell even without seeing their face. The more he stares, however, the more solid the figure gets. Through the darkness he finally sees her and he feels her magic ebb away against his own.

"I hurt you," he says, "Ah, pardon me. Something else I’m unfortunately very good at."

"You are right, regardless," the woman says, "This power of mine… it’s a dangerous and awful thing."

"I have a similar power," he says, "It _is_ unpleasant. Rare is the mind that can withstand such clear memory of things long past. The protection we weave with our own might in our own minds is not supposed to break like this."

"I hurt you too," the woman says, but she does not waste her words on an apology that would mean nothing.

"I assume you’ve got what you needed from me?"

The woman nods, "I think, maybe we should keep some things between us once we wake up."

"Ah, and here I thought you might reveal all of my sordid story to your avenging friends," he mocks, "You must at least tell them of the stone in my possession."

"I don’t know yet what I’ll tell them," the woman says, "This has been… a troubling experience."

Loki can attest to that, but he can’t seem to summon the strength to show this sorceress what it feels like to experience their vast powers that trick and trap the mind. Instead, all Loki wishes is to sleep and rest. Perhaps his time for a true escape has finally come.

He is a foul creature, a monster.

His magic is indeed rotten, as is that of all the Jotnar, and it taints even the purest form of power he had learned from his once mother.

Thor finally rose to battle and his allies are a plenty. Asgard is prepared, Thor has said so himself, and they no longer need him.

They never _did_ need him and he was foolish to think otherwise. Foolish to think there was hope for him when there is not.

When she wakes up, Loki thinks, like the Great King Bor, he will simply stay asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: the extremely talented @wnnbdarklord <3 <3 <3
> 
> Also, since we're almost at the middle of this thing, I would just like to thank everyone for reading and hopefully enjoying this little re-write. I truly did not expect it to get this much traction so I'm both pleasantly surprised and super grateful! I have most of this story already written so the chapters should keep being posted on Thursdays.
> 
> I hope you'll all continue to enjoy this story as it goes along (I look forward to every comment and kudos as well but it's totally up to you all if you want to do either).


	6. Come Mighty Storms

Loki opens his eyes to darkness. 

He has a passing thought that he should panic, but he doesn’t. This time, the darkness soothes him. No voices torment him as he lays on his side in this non-space, his hands tucked underneath his head, feeling neither rough Jotun marks or any kind of skin.

When he blinks, she appears beside him. No longer a shadow or nearing form, the complete body is now solid before him. She is bigger than him, wider and taller, but she lays a mirror to him, tucked in and comfortable, her eyes a fathomless and deep void, as dark as the blackness around them. She is clad in soft fur and armor that gleams even for the lack of light.

"Am I dead?" Loki asks, unable to recall how he came to be here.

"Not yet," she says, her voice echoing around them, "Why do you want to die so badly, Loki?"

He feels so terribly sleepy. This darkness is soft, somehow, as if he’s laying on sand under water. 

"The Midgardian sorceress has invaded your mind," she says, a smile to her cracked lips, "Oh, it’s so strange to see you break so quickly."

"I’m hardly broken," Loki defends weakly, "I’m merely tired."

She tilts her head, regards him gently, "You know how minds work, Loki. She has defeated you and you let her."

Loki wants to argue that no mere Midgardian could defeat him but for some reason the words will not form in his mind let alone be sounded out. They feel like shards when he tries to gather them, they cut into his mind and what bleeds out is his own self.

He remembers now that she’s said it. The woman in red, her glowing magic, her intense presence in the crooks of his mind. Even as he lays here, comfortable and tucked in, he can feel that he is losing something important.

He just doesn’t know if he cares to stop it.

"Why are you here?" Loki manages, his eyes halfway closed.

"I’m always with you," she says, "As I am with everyone I’ve touched."

"Why? Why did you save me? For what purpose? Don’t you see, I’m… I’m willing. I’m ready. Please…"

"She’s made you remember many terrible things," she says, "Oh, my poor little Loki. Not even your fear of me is stronger than your hatred for yourself."

He tries his best to at least look at her. Once he does, he sees her shifting form, her furs now greyed and her armor rusted. Time itself passes with her, the decay that befalls life always within her.

"I can do no more," Loki says, though it comes out a mumble, "Please."

Her touch on his skin burns and it’s the first thing he properly feels though he hasn’t the strength to even flinch. He lets the burning touch soothe him instead, hopes that she has heard him, hopes that she will take him now before his cowardice commands him to change his mind and suffer what’s left of the rest of his worthless life.

"The Mad Titan means to break the wheel," she says, "You’re a deity of chaos, Loki, and you are meant for this battle. The wheel must not break."

Loki understands at once the importance of what Death is saying to him. Something inside him is tearing itself in anguish and terror but this something is so deeply buried underneath the darkness that he doesn’t fully feel it. 

"There will be nowhere to go to," Death says, gently, "My realm will disappear, I will disappear, and you know then what will happen to the rest of you."

"Silence…" Loki says, his mind producing the words he can’t feel for, "There won’t be anything at all left."

"Are you ready for that?" she asks, "Are you ready to truly disappear? Is there no one at all you wish to save from such fate, if not yourself?"

"Why do you care?" Loki asks, feels a trace of feeling rousing, "It doesn’t _seem_ to affect you. My living or my dying too, I… I can’t possibly be that important."

"Balance is all I care about," she says, "You’re so young still, Loki, but if you were able to understand what it is to exist beyond years, beyond time, beyond dimension, you would see how delicate each piece of the Universe is. Although, perhaps there’s time for you to learn, if you so choose."

"Choice," Loki says, "What a wonderful thing."

Death laughs, and her laughter echoes in that familiar way, all around him, loud and quiet at the same time. When he feels her pulling away he tries to reach for her, tries to catch her before she’s gone, to plead with her as many times it takes to take him wherever it may be as long as it is not here. 

"Don’t worry child," he hears her say, "I’m never truly gone. Now, I think someone’s trying to wake you up."

Loki opens his eyes, this time to blinding light.

Wincing, he tries to cover them but finds himself trapped with glowing red rope, no doubt enspelled against him. Indeed, when he tries to move he feels the rope tightening, its rough edges cutting into his skin. He seems to have been sat down on a chair of some sort, the ropes tied around its handles and its legs. 

There’s someone there, Loki notices when he looks back up, just beyond the light. 

"Wanda," Loki says, "That’s your name, isn’t it? Awfully bold of you to prance around my mind."

"I… Ah, no, you’re right," she says, the glowing light dimming, "I thought you would wake up with me and when you didn’t I - "

"How sweet," Loki says, "A torturer who cares."

"I’m not… that."

"Very well. Untie me then. Oh, you can’t, is that it? I suppose, after taking such a wonderful stroll through my mind you’re now convinced I will wreak havoc if released."

Wanda shakes her head and appears almost concerned, though Loki is more inclined to think she’s simply feeling chastised.

"I don’t think that," she says, "Maybe. I don’t know. Your mind is… it’s so scattered."

"Is that what you were doing just then?" Loki asks, blinks to clear his eyes for the sudden lack of light, "Fixing my mind?"

"No!" She hurries to deny, "I just… I was trying to find you. I didn’t know where you went and I thought - "

"I go wherever I please," Loki says, "Even with this gruesome body in chains."

"Your mind is scattered, broken," she says, "But it’s also strong. Your magic, I’ve never felt anything like it. I don’t… I don’t know what the right thing to do here is."

"Ah, you’re still so young," Loki mocks, "There’s time for you to learn, if you so choose."

She either doesn’t catch his meaning because she really wasn't still in his mind for Death's sudden visit or she ignores it, but the ropes around him loosen up and drop. Loki rises up, feels his muscles tense and burn for the movement, the thrashing through portals and his battle with Thor taking their due toll.

"I don’t suppose you have something to drink?" Loki asks, looks around to find he is still in Stephen Strange’s house, though there is no sign of the man himself.

"What would you like?" Wanda asks, sounding a bit strained, "I think there’s orange juice in the fridge. Water, maybe? Whiskey, uh… vodka?"

"Vodka," Loki says, "I quite like vodka. A cocktail with vodka, better yet."

Wanda’s expression doesn’t quite twist, but it certainly falters between confusion and weary acceptance. There’s also a tightness to her posture, what Loki assumes is her readying herself for whatever he might do.

Lucky for her, Loki plans to do not a thing.

"I can, uh, mix the orange juice with vodka? I think that’s a cocktail… " she offers, ever so helpfully.

When they relocate to Stephen Strange’s spacious kitchen, Wanda fixes them a drink while Loki settles on a chair around a heavy wooden table. He contemplates Wanda's movements, her choppy gestures, the fact that she almost spills the orange juice all over the pristine kitchen floor, and her shaky hands when she brings the drinks and sits across from him.

Her gaze wavers between her glass and the hallway leading to the room they’d just exited.

"I won’t hurt you," Loki says, deciding to be blunt, "I’m not really in the mood."

His words do break the silence between them, but not the tension.

"I didn’t think you would," she says, plays with the rim of her glass without taking a sip, "I just… I’ve never felt such strong after effects from anyone else. It’s as if a part of my mind is still trapped in yours."

Loki grins, shrugs, "Could be. Ah, but I don’t see how we’d find this lost part when my mind is so scattered. So… _broken_."

"You don’t like that word," she astutely observes.

"I resent any moniker given to me that does not accurately describe me," Loki says, postures as much as he can, "I am not so fragile, nor am I broken. You think my mind is scattered, but it isn’t. It’s quite orderly, in fact. You’ve dared enter the mind of a sorcerer, one who wields magic as well as he breathes."

"But you weave lies too, as well as your magic," she says with a look of regret, "Pretending the chaos in your own self does not exist will not banish it. You can’t run from it. It will consume you, it will… it will eat you alive."

"I take it you speak from experience."

Wanda does not grant his observation an answer, but she does finally drink. Their respective cocktails vanish within seconds after their little chat, and Loki volunteers to pour more. Wanda downs hers in silence and promptly asks for another. Loki obliges, and she drinks and drinks. Her hands don’t stop their incessant trembling though, even as her dark eyes glaze over.

"I still see it," Wanda says, shudders, "I see the darkness and in that darkness there’s someone… her eyes are deep voids and there’s nothing in them, nothing at all…"

"A touch of Death," Loki says, "Ironic how it wakes you up."

Wanda manages a small laugh, pretends valiantly that she isn’t completely terrified while Loki pretends he isn’t pleased that he made her laugh. 

"So that was…"

"Yes," Loki says, "I know not why she appeared, but it was her. How much of her did you see?"

"Not much," Wanda mumbles, a distant look to her unfocused eyes, "Just a glimpse. And then I lost you. Oh… oh, I didn’t think, I’ve never, well, I do believe in something, I do, an afterlife of sorts, but I’ve never… ah, I guess, maybe I haven’t ever truly believed it."

"It’s a matter of dimensions," Loki says, "Energy flows. It is not so complicated, but I fear you might need to be sober to understand it properly."

"I just… " she says, her blurry eyes gazing off somewhere far behind him, "Oh, Thor will be so mad at me."

And, just like that, the trance of their shared drink is broken. Loki rolls his eyes and imagines Thor daring to go against someone so powerful and inevitably losing. Still, he doesn’t think her actions would call upon Thor’s legendary rage, if only because her stature will make Thor’s oafish brain forgive her.

"He won’t do a thing to you," Loki says, "He will simply blame it on my trickery. People fall for my deceptive charm, he will say."

"My brother is dead," Wanda blurts out suddenly, frowns into her glass, "When he was alive, when he was still with me… it was as if nobody else could ever understand me as well as him. We’ve grown up together, we’ve laughed together, we’ve suffered together. There was no one more important to me than him."

"I’m sorry about your brother," Loki says, and he means it, "But Thor is not my kin. He never was."

"If only you’d seen him… " she continues unabated, her bright brown eyes filled with pain, "He mourned for you, he lost himself in drink trying to forget what happened. "

"That grief was not for me," Loki says, though even he no longer fully believes it, "It was for his own failure to carry the burden of Asgard’s rule and his visions of the end of all things that have made him come undone."

"I don’t think so. He was lost without you, Loki."

Loki sighs, "I did see him," he offers, perhaps foolishly as it seems Thor hasn’t told Wanda the whole of his trickery, "I found my way into his depressing life and I made him love me like a brother. Then I took that away. I assume his anger will propel him now, until the moment it doesn’t."

Loki expects it so he’s not surprised when Wanda’s gaze turns dark. She observes him as though seeing him for the first time, her blurry eyes now poised on him as if she means to prod his mind again.

"You hurt him," she says, "On purpose. Why?"

"Does it matter why?" Loki asks, shrugs, "My goal was to keep him away from Asgard. Hurting him in other ways was simply a consequence of that, though one I did greatly enjoy."

"I was in your mind," she says, as if to someone dim, "I know you’re lying. Or maybe it is the truth, but it’s not the whole truth. You are… you are small, in your mind. The child that is trapped in there cries out for his family because he is afraid of being left alone."

"Wanda," Loki warns, but the woman continues, a possessed look washing over her features.

"Yes," she says, "You are small and you are insignificant. The only way you can find relief is in pretense. The one who is lost is not you. The one who is trapped is not you. The one who cries is not you. The one who craves validation is not you. The one who feels pain beyond measure is not you. The one who calls for Death - "

Loki weaves a spell, teeth grinding against teeth, as he stands up and takes her up with him. Her expression is blank but for a slight frown against the pulling weight of his magic, and reflected in her eyes Loki sees his monstrous form. She falls from his grip and Loki falls too, but he doesn’t stay to see what has become of Wanda. His need to escape the cloying space propels him to vanish while his fear of having finally been truly seen causes him to make yet another dreadful mistake.

He doesn’t see the ropes following behind him until they wrap around his arms and legs. Abruptly, he is pulled back and through a portal, landing suddenly and violently back onto the hard floor of Stephen Strange’s home.

When he blinks and his eyes clear, he sees the man standing above him, weaving magic that is meant to hold him. Wanda is behind him, hugging herself as she shivers.

"Thor has warned us of the danger his brother presents," Stephen Strange says to her, "I fail to see why you’d do something so foolish."

"He was in pain. He _still_ is," she says, and Loki can’t even bring himself to be grateful.

Once again, he is caught. Stephen Strange transports him easily, aided by the ropes and his own magic, until he is enclosed in a chair of some sort, the high technology pointing to one likely maker.

"This won’t hold me either," Loki warns as he struggles, though he can plainly see his threat holds no weight.

"Whatever you may think of us," Stephen Strange says, "We are a resourceful species."

Loki is left alone, Stephen Strange’s form fading as he yet again makes a display of his power. 

Looking around, Loki sees that he has been stashed away with a myriad of different things scattered about. Antiques, books and tombs, even a sculpture or two. Crates are laying about holding who knows what wonders and the light is similarly dimmed as it is in other rooms of this house. Loki is grateful for that at least.

The chair he’s been cast into, Loki realizes, is not really a chair. He is encased in something transparent, able to move only his head. The soft surface behind him is almost comfortable with how unobtrusive it is, and the only material he can see to his left and right is a stark white that holds both him and the substance preventing him from moving. However, it isn’t only the cold technology that holds him. Loki can sense magic imbued in these new bonds, the power of Stephen Strange’s ancient magic working along with the enforced materials of this device.

Resourceful indeed, Loki thinks. He knows he’s likely to blame for this device being made. If he hadn’t come to Earth, if he hadn’t sought his fulfillment through empty vengeance, it would be unlikely that the Midgardians would be so well prepared for someone like him. 

Nevertheless, Loki wonders if the people here have strength enough to protect the stones they keep, and if they are indeed worthy enough to keep such power safe. What Loki knows of them is that they too fall to feelings easily and are equally as tempted as he to use it for their own needs, much as he would never admit to such a thing out loud.

If they can’t keep the stones safe, Loki thinks, as dread washes over him, then they are all already doomed. 

For a long time, though perhaps it merely seems longer to him, Loki is alone. This too is a torture he understands, a torture he knows so well. There is little else more effective at breaking even the strongest of beings than the solitude of their own thoughts.

A knock upon the wooden door startles him from his dreadful musings. The woman who had nearly destroyed his mind enters.

"I would prefer to avoid being shown pity, if at all possible."

"I believed you when you said you wouldn’t hurt me."

"Trusting me is a foolish thing to do," Loki says, "I’m certain Thor has told you that."

"I understand why," she says, "I’m not angry with you. I said things to you I shouldn’t have. It’s been difficult to control my power of late."

"I believe you should practice more then," Loki says, "Not that I’m offering my services. I’m sure your wizard friend will help you. Or else one of your other friends."

"They’re not my friends," Wanda says, frowning, "I… I was brought into this but I’m not like them."

"Oh?"

"I’m far more like you," she says, and Loki promptly rolls his eyes and looks away.

He hopes she’ll understand that he wishes not to speak and that he wishes even more so to be alone, despite the fact that solitude terrifies him too. She doesn’t, of course.

"I’ve done terrible things too," she says, "Sometimes I still don’t know what the right thing to do is, I guess you know that by now but, I _am_ trying. There’s hope, for me and for you."

Loki laughs, a desperate sound, "You are like me, you say. But I don’t seek redemption. I don’t seek to do the right thing. All I want in this moment is to enjoy my confinement in silence."

"Is that really what you want?" she asks, and she even takes a step closer. 

"No," Loki says, "What I want is to be freed. I don’t suppose you’d consider it again?"

"I can’t," she says, and she even makes an effort to sound regretful, "But I did speak on your behalf. The others they… they think you’re working for him."

"Of course they do," Loki says, pointedly ignoring her show of faith to him, "I’m the villain here. What I did in New York has resulted in me being seen both as a failure and as a threat. Isn’t that lovely? I wonder… "

"I know you’re not," she says, "I know what I saw. Stephen thinks you’ve tricked me, somehow. That what I saw in your mind isn’t the truth."

"I can certainly manipulate it so."

"You can’t," she says, seemingly utterly convinced, "If you could have, you wouldn’t have let me see anything so horrible, so vulnerable. You wouldn’t have run from me, you wouldn’t have shut your mind so I couldn’t see more."

Loki scoffs, "Fine then. And so what now? Am I to be granted a cell? Am I to have another trial?"

"I don’t know." 

"Alright," Loki says, "So they don’t tell you anything, these non-friends of yours. They see you as weak in matters of resolve and justice. Is it because of what you’ve done? Or is it simply because you’re a woman?"

Finally, a nerve has been struck. Wanda’s frown deepens, and she looks away from him. Just as Loki thinks he’s won, as insignificant as this victory is, she looks back to him and there’s a hardened stance to her now.

"I will speak on your behalf again, regardless," she says, "If nothing else, I think you can help us. You know the most about the threat we face."

Loki smiles, "Say, whom will you be speaking to? You mentioned a them, but I hear the Avengers have, eh, split? Forgive me, I don’t know the details."

Wanda is a bit sick of him, Loki can tell. It should make him feel satisfied even if in only a petty way, but for some reason it doesn’t. The silence that falls on them is tense and she seems unwilling to share more. 

"I think… when the time comes for them to fight they will do so together," she says, though her tone suggests uncertainty.

"Regardless," Loki points out, "I’m not the only one with a beacon. At least I know how to use mine. Are your non-friends strong enough to fight this threat, do you think?"

"Thor says we are," she shrugs, "But I don’t know. We have little information on this threat we’re facing and nobody here is willing to talk to you, except for me."

"He did mention that the Avengers would take care of things," Loki nods, "Still, there needs to be unity in battle. Strategy. Bickering soldiers weaken even the mightiest of armies."

Wanda smiles, shakes her head, "I agree," she says, somewhat more relaxed, "Perhaps, if you were to help us… "

"Don’t misunderstand me, Wanda," Loki says, "I am not terribly inclined to help in this matter. I feel precious little for this planet, and less yet for all of you."

"Is that so?" she challenges, "You think you’d be better protected elsewhere? On your own? You can only run for so long, Loki."

Loki doesn’t. He knows very well that even the farthest corner of the universe would not be far enough to hide from the Titan’s wrath.

He closes his eyes, exhales, and opens them again to find that stark clarity that eludes him so often lately. No matter what he might feel or think, this woman is a lifeline he must take lest he be left here to rot in this damned chair.

"Very well," Loki says, "I will share all I know as long as I’m freed."

"I’m glad to hear it," Wanda says, offers him a smile, "I will do what I can."

With this relative promise, she leaves. Loki stays where he is, ruminates on this deal he's made. He senses someone else behind Wanda’s words, her easy offers of solidarity and understanding.

He’d been tricked like that once, after all, by a woman altogether different.

***

Loki has begun to feel a bit like an unwanted piece of furniture being inspected for disassembly. 

Despite Wanda’s words she hasn’t been the only one to visit him, though she has so far been the only one to try to get something out of him.

Stephen Strange came in to check the bonds and scratch his gaudy beard while a man whose name Loki didn’t get came in to give him food and water, clearly displeased to have been allocated this particular task. Nevertheless, Loki thanks him, wanting to appear as unthreatening as possible. The man doesn’t buy his mild mannered thanks, and so he is left alone to await yet another inspection.

Still, he would have preferred the sullen man or even Stephen Strange himself, infuriating as he is, over who visits him next.

"Loki," Thor says, makes it sound like a greeting, "I’ve come to speak with you."

"Oh?" Loki says, "I thought you just came to look at me."

Thor frowns but he does not otherwise respond. Loki notices his fallen expression though there persists an undercurrent of anger beneath the surface calm.

"Wanda tells me you wish to cooperate." 

"I’d be ever so glad to," Loki says, "Even this masterfully made chair is getting somewhat uncomfortable."

"If you think you’ll be released…"

"I was promised such."

"I’ve made no such promise!" Thor objects, "And I am the only one with the right here to decide what becomes of you!"

Loki can’t resist a smile even while his chest burns for the hatred in Thor’s voice. 

"None of this is funny, Loki," Thor says, suddenly calm again, "But I have little time to care what jest you make next. I’m here to broker a new deal and this deal will be final."

"Ah," Loki hums, strives to show no worry for this development, "Do tell."

"You will tell us what you know of the Mad Titan and his plans and your reward will be a cell in Stark’s custody. It is not a chair so you may find it to your comfort."

Loki covers his bubbling anger with a laugh. He shakes his head too, for good measure, looks at Thor as if their places are reversed. Tries to, at least.

"In that case, Thor, I shall make my peace with silence. Though you have little time for jests I’m certain you have time enough to wait for me to break and tell you all I know."

"There are ways, Loki, ways I wish not to employ should you refuse my offer," Thor says, seemingly unbothered by Loki’s show of fake courage.

"You mean to use your sorceress again? I fear she might not wish to participate."

Thor gives this a smirk of his own though there is no joy in it, "No, Loki. Wanda has been through enough with you and your trickery. I have other options."

"Ah, a more common sort of torture?" Loki guesses, tries not to think of the likely candidate, "You’d see me beaten? My bones broken? My skin mottled with bruises? That was just our life, Thor, don’t think it will feel like anything to me now."

Loki can see Thor’s jaw tighten, his hands practically forming fists already, likely only knowing that his skin will hurt him in turn stopping Thor from acting on his anger. There is no armor against his arms and hands now, though there is no reason for Loki to think it couldn’t appear, should he anger Thor further.

"This is for you, isn’t it?" Loki asks, "You have no care for others, no care for this war, all you want is to make me pay for what I did to you."

Thor growls though he doesn’t move from his spot, "Loki, I warn you - "

"Ari was such a good friend, wasn’t he?" Loki continues, riding a wave of something that could either be defiance or fear, "I’m sure you’ve felt so good, so warm, acting so gentle around him, promising your protection for the small price of companionship. Oh, I wonder, if my glamour hadn’t fallen what sorts of things could have happened in that bed…"

Thor rushes towards him, but Loki sees no armor. Better yet, because when Thor’s hands close around his throat, or even so much as touch his skin he’ll be -

"Stop!" Loki yells, "Please!"

In the second it takes for his words to come to him properly, Thor stops just short of touching him. Loki hangs his head and wishes he could be the one to strangle himself.

"Thor, I don’t know how to control it," Loki whispers, Thor’s heaving breaths sounding loud in the sudden silence.

"Loki…"

"It hurts," Loki spits, unable to look up from the wretched blue of his arms, barely hidden under Stark’s transparent contraption, "This skin. This body. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to have been born like this. Why… it won’t go away!"

"Your glamour, Loki, you could weave a spell - "

"I can’t!" Loki yells, shuts his eyes against the sight he can no longer stand, "It’s still going to be there, it’s still under all of it, under the skin of your brother, under the skin of this impostor who thought he could be…."

"Odin is dead, Thor," Loki says, "And this is what I’m left with."

"How did he die, Loki?" Thor asks, his voice a deep rumble, "Please. How?"

"I don’t know. I thought she might have taken him but now I think he…"

"What?" Thor asks, "What, Loki?"

"I think he might have just… fallen asleep," Loki says, hates how his voice wavers, hates how he can feel tears gathering in these foul red eyes, "I haven’t done it. I swear to you. I couldn’t."

When he dares look up, through the strands of his unkempt black hair he sees Thor’s eyes that nearly mirror his own. Thor has seldom cried, and of course he mostly did so when he was younger, when they both were.

Now he cries, though he makes no sound. Loki sees that there is something tense about him now, different than before. Loki wants to think it’s because he wants that touch after all, but he can’t bear to let such a painful thought linger.

"Who did you think took him?" Thor asks, voice heavy.

"Hela," Loki says, "She’d been there. I felt her. But I'm not sure it was her. Even if she did take him he was likely already dead and there were no signs of…"

"Helheim, Loki?" Thor protests, "That is not right. Our father belongs in Valhalla with mother!"

"Does he?" Loki dares ask, resists a flinch for asking it when he sees the expression on Thor’s face.

"How could you…" Thor begins but then he stops, "Ragnarok is coming, perhaps Hela thought to use our father as a soldier in her army."

"Perhaps," Loki allows, if only to save himself the trouble of making Thor understand anything he doesn’t wish to, "But she is not the enemy. Death seeks balance while - "

_Damn it._

"While what?" Thor prods, but if Loki shows his hand now he will lose to Thor again. He will lose to all these terrible unwelcome feelings he so wishes he could banish.

"My freedom," Loki says, "For information."

Thor sighs, "Why must you always be so difficult, brother?"

Loki stands his ground as much as he can, considering. Thor lingers but in the end he shakes his head and leaves, the heavy wooden door slamming behind him.

***

There is another round of water, though no food this time, from the silent sullen man. After that, nobody comes. Loki fights his entrapment with all the strength he has but the bonds do not weaken and the device does not even move for his trashing. Stark may be many irritating things but he is good at one thing at least, Loki has to give him that.

Even more time passes, though more so it simply drags on with tedious boredom, before Loki begins to feel his eyes closing. He forces them open each time. 

And yet, even he is not strong enough to stop his eyes from closing eventually and his body relinquishing its tense posture to unconsciousness. 

Again, there is darkness. The sounds are familiar, the voices like old enemies you never want to hear from and yet they keep finding ways to call out to you. Everything Loki has ever thought, everything he has ever felt, all of his hidden desires and wants and needs are flayed open and displayed.

The Other always knew the best way to hurt him and anyone who dared go against the word of the Mad Titan. But the Titan himself was no stranger to pain.

Once Loki saw what the Titan was capable of doing to his own children they too became a frequent visitor in his nightmares. The one made of mechanical parts was on his mind most often, her screams etched into his mind like a burning brand. Seeing someone pulled apart and put back together countless times in this manner reminded Loki of the toys he used to collect and disassemble, either out of anger or curiosity. Except, those toys were not alive. They did not plead for their release, they did not promise obedience over and over again only for their pain to grow exponentially with each plea.

This time too, he sees her. 

Her pride never let her plead with Loki himself, and her desire to prove worthy to her father only served to drive her madder when anyone under her command failed.

Loki was much better at burying useless feelings back then. It is likely why he’s seeing her so often now, his delayed affect catching up to him.

When he wakes he is bathed in sweat, the image of her as vivid as when he first saw it. Only seconds after waking does Loki realize his breathing has turned to wheezing and his disoriented mind has trouble placing the walls he sees and the things around him.

For a moment he panics as he looks around desperately, thinking he would see him here, thinking this is a punishment for something he’s done.

Then, once he calms, once the memories come back to him and he is fully awake, he realizes with a tired sort of sense of irony that this is, indeed, a punishment. Except it has not been delivered by the Mad Titan, but by his once kin.

The chair contraption is still unbroken and the magic of the bonds as strong as ever. Stephen Strange must have been here at some point or another while Loki slept, strengthening the bonds.

So he is not to be released.

Loki wishes he can say he is surprised, but he isn’t. Thor’s anger certainly hasn’t been banished by the confession Loki had so foolishly shared, and why would it have been? There is little Loki can say that will grace him with mercy or reprieve from Thor’s anguish and the consequences of his own choices.

"What a wonderful thing indeed," Loki says to himself, knowing that even with a lack of such things as choices he’s fared about the same.

He wonders what will become of him if Thor doesn’t change his mind. Surely he can not be kept here indefinitely. Although, if Thor is foolish enough to give up on Loki’s surrender and simply fight, and he absolutely is, then Loki will stay here, as promised, to await the end of all things in Stark’s fancy chair.

The thought strikes him as funny, and so he laughs. What else is there to do? The bonds might break, eventually, if Stephen Strange joins the battle at some point and no one is here to strengthen them, but by then it will be too late.

Loki thinks on the virtue of freedom, thinks that it might not be worth insisting upon it if the cost is as great as the consequence of losing this war. There must also be other ways to learn, ways that do not include him, and Loki is fairly certain at least some of the Avengers would consider such a path. Though, even that might be too late.

Struggling as he is with his own thoughts, Loki doesn’t hear the doors open and close, but when he sees her he is surprised. Whether pleasantly or unpleasantly, he isn’t so sure.

"The Black Widow," Loki says, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"How can we be sure you’re not working for him?"

Loki hums, "Well, you can’t. But I assure you I am entirely free of my servitude to him."

"How do we know you’ll tell us the truth?" she asks next, eyebrow lifted, her overall manner suggesting he doesn’t need to respond as she already knows the answer.

Still, he obliges, "I have no guarantees. All I have is what I know. I suppose if that is not to your satisfaction there will be no objection to simply leaving me here."

"You can’t stay here," she says, "Stephen Strange is far too important for our efforts to be assigned babysitting duties."

Loki ignores that for the sake of his own argument, "Well then. What is there to do?"

"I’ve spoken to the team," she says, "What’s left of it anyway. Thor aside, they’re willing to work with you."

"Thor aside you say," Loki comments, "He won’t like that."

"Thor is in Asgard, currently," she offers easily, "And we’ve found you a different accommodation, if you’ll take it of course."

"Ah, and where might that be?" 

This different accommodation is a small apartment somewhere in New York. Not terribly imaginative, Loki thinks, but certainly practical. The Black Widow strikes him as such, practical in all things, able to banish her own emotions for the sake of whatever goal she seeks to fulfill.

Loki thinks he might be envious of her, if only a little bit. Still, there is a more pressing matter of the ropes still very much around him.

"I believe I said my price is my freedom," Loki reminds her as they exit the car she had summoned to take them here.

"Just a precaution, you understand." 

Loki does. Before they’d even left Stephen Strange’s house he’d been tossed a cloak to put over the bonds that bind him and hide well his monstrous body. Loki freely assumes that he would not be recognized as the would be conqueror of this city, but that the sight of him as he is would garner some amount of fear. Maria appears in his mind then, and he wonders where she is and promptly hates himself for it.

The Widow takes him upstairs and unlocks the door at the very end of the hallway. Loki is not surprised to see Wanda there, privately putting the pieces together. She is powerful, more so likely than the wizard even, and yet she is apparently low in rank enough to be, as the Widow said, a babysitter.

They share a glance, the Widow and Wanda, and then they are left alone. Loki hears the click and lock of the doors and he wonders if this practical prison is truly meant for two.

"I asked to be here," Wanda says, as if sensing his thoughts.

"I see," Loki says, moves as gracefully as he can from the locked door with his hands tied to at least appear unbothered, "Why?"

"I don’t know," she sighs, pats the seat beside her, "I know it can’t be comfortable but, please sit."

"I’d rather not get too close," Loki says, believing she would catch his meaning but it takes a moment for her to understand.

"It’s your skin, isn’t it?"

Loki nods, working on the ropes behind his back as he does, "The Widow said your team is prepared to work with me. How did you achieve such a feat?"

Wanda shrugs, "They aren't, she lied to you."

"Oh?" 

Now, Loki is intrigued. Forgoing his struggle with the ropes for a moment he dares a few steps closer to where Wanda is, "Do tell."

"Fractured as we are, she thought it best not to consult anyone just yet."

"That seems… counterintuitive."

Wanda shrugs again, appearing strangely relaxed considering their situation. Loki imagines it must be that she is as good at posturing as he is.

"It’s difficult to get everyone on the same page, is what I meant," Wanda says, "There’s a lot of ego stroking to be done. Natasha is good at it and it really is only a matter of time before they come to an agreement it’s just…"

"There is no time," Loki finishes for her.

"Your brother is mad at you and it’s clouding his judgement," Wanda says, "While Steve and Stark are mad at each other. As you said, bickering soldiers weaken even the mightiest of armies."

"Glad to know someone is listening to me," Loki says, mulls it over. It seems Thor’s earthly friends are not as keen on team spirit as they had been when he was last here. When _he_ was the threat.

Though, when he thinks on it more, Loki supposes they never were, not even then. He’d thought it was for the scepter’s influence that they were so easily divided but perhaps there is more to be said about such powerful people finding common ground. 

"I assume your sorcerer doesn’t know I’m here?" 

"He does," Wanda says, "It would be difficult to hide you from his sight so Natasha told him she’d handle you instead. He was not against it at all, mind you. I think he’s still a bit pissed you almost destroyed his house."

"Correction, Thor almost destroyed his house," Loki feels the need to say, "I was merely trying to avoid conflict but my brother… _Thor_ , is a stubborn fool."

This makes her smile, for some reason. And it’s a soft sort of smile, as if there’s a pleasant memory creeping behind it. Perhaps there is. 

"Your brother, how did he die?"

Wanda's smile falters, "In battle. He was protecting someone. I suppose you could say he died a hero’s death."

"I see," Loki says, "Would you agree?"

Wanda’s pale smile holds though her eyes fill with tears. She shrugs, "I don’t know. He was… that wasn’t supposed to happen. I know everyone says this but he was, ah, I truly believed that his power would protect him. Loki, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead." 

"Do you think there’s a place for him in death? Thor told me great warriors go to a joyful place filled with food and ale and their fallen friends. Is that… is it true?"

Loki supposes he could simply lie. He could tell Wanda what she wants to hear, what she needs to hear. This is what people do when their grieving friends confide in them and he is certain this is so on Midgard as well.

And yet.

"I don’t know," Loki says, sighs, "I, well, he is _somewhere_. But I can’t tell you where, much less if Thor’s grand assurance is correct, since we aren’t exactly privy to the knowledge of who feasts around that table as we speak."

Wanda, as expected, does not appear comforted by this. Loki considers if he should tell her something else, if he should share a more positive spin on her question, but in a moment more she nods to herself.

"I don’t even know what I expected to hear," Wanda says, "I guess, hah, I’m sober now so I thought…"

"You’re making a jest, at a time like this?" Loki asks, and he doesn’t at all enjoy Wanda’s little laugh that follows.

"Either way," she says, "In the end, I got my revenge."

"And, what did it feel like to get it?" Loki asks, though by her expression he can tell what the answer will be.

"It felt empty," she says, "Empty and sad and terrifying. I realized then what I’m truly capable of and I… I’m afraid that, while a part of me hated it, a small part of me could have found a way to like it. To give in to it. To this emptiness, the chaos…"

"Perhaps we _are_ more alike than I thought," Loki says, unwilling to ignore this opportunity and take it for what it is. An offer, perhaps, of peace.

"I’m sorry I attacked you," she says, sounding honest as far as Loki can tell, "I trusted Thor when he said you were dangerous and I... I thought I could be useful in this way."

Suddenly terribly exhausted Loki finally allows his body to rest. He still doesn’t sit too close to Wanda but the sofa is big enough so they can both have their own space. Certain now that she will not attempt to use her powers on him again, Loki also allows himself to relax somewhat from his tense posture. 

"The Widow said Thor went back to Asgard."

"He did," Wanda confirms, "His friends came to get him. A lady warrior and a big burly man."

"Ah," Loki sighs, "They must have been so glad to have retrieved their leader. I only fear that the information I have on the Mad Titan won’t be enough to save me from the combined rage of all of Asgard."

"I saw it," Wanda says, "In your mind. You could have hidden, you could have run, you even wanted to. So then why did you go back?"

Loki shrugs, "I suppose I may be the sentimental kind."

Wanda looks at him with a raised brow. 

Sighing, Loki says, "It’s the only home I’ve ever known. I thought I might make the wheel of fate turn in my fortune in the process but, as it happens so often, I failed."

Taking a moment of silence, Wanda says, "My home… I failed to protect it. I failed to protect my brother. And so now I’m here, pretending to be like them, pretending that my being here is not just a way for me to forget what I’ve done."

"We need you here though, if that’s worth anything," she adds, a sad smile to her lips, "Information is valuable in war but powerful allies are too, I think. I meant it when I said it, I’ve never felt anything like your magic and I… I know you said you don’t want to train me but if I could even so much as just see how you use it, it would be enough. What do you say?"

Loki observes her for a moment. All he sees in the depths of her dark eyes is honesty and he can’t for the life of him understand it. This woman has been in his head, has visited all the dreadful corners of his mind, and yet she offers to ally with him so easily and without even a trace of fear.

_She’s lying._

_Don’t fall for it, you fool._

_She only seeks to use you._

Shut up, Loki wants to say to this insistent voice, but the more the voice speaks his doubts the more he’s certain that they are right. This woman has clearly been coached by the Widow and the Widow would be aware of how to approach him, how to trick and tame the monster. She’d done it before and now she’s doing it again, hiding behind this young woman.

"If I may make a request?" Loki asks, and Wanda is quick to agree, "My hands, I would like them untied."

"Uh…"

"I realize you need to employ precaution but these ropes would work just as well if tied to each wrist separately," Loki hurries to say, "It would be a show of good faith, besides. We need to trust each other if we are to work together."

"Right. Of course," she says, though in a moment more she amends, "Ah, I can’t. Loki, I’m sorry but it’s just…"

"You don’t trust me," Loki says, glad to have been right, "I understand. The Widow doesn’t either, despite her willingness to take me on as an "ally"."

"I do trust you," Wanda says, "At least, I believe I should. But it’s not my decision to make."

"Is anything? I was wondering," Loki says, infusing his words with utmost sympathy, "If this isn’t a prison for the both of us."

This too, seems to strike a nerve with her. Though Loki has to admit, Wanda does well not to respond to provocation even if she has no ability at all to hide the hurt written plainly in her expression.

"I asked to be here, I told you that," she says, though her voice is low and sounds barely there, "I thought I could help…"

"Like you helped last time?" Loki prods, "I’m not so certain your, well, whatever it is you wish to call them, quite trust you either. You are more powerful than that arrogant wizard and yet you’re here, with me, guarding me instead of fighting."

"Words _are_ your greatest weapon after all, " Wanda says, sighs, "Ah, I should have known. It doesn’t matter what I saw, or what you let me see, you will simply play games with me until you get what you want."

"I’m not…"

"You are," she says, "What is it you want, Loki? Is it freedom? Is it to go back home? Is it to fight this battle or to run from it?"

"I don’t know what I want," Loki spits as he begins his struggle with the ropes anew, wonders distantly if his words haven’t become weapons instead of tools. He’s so easily being seen through by these humans that it makes him question if he has any gifts left at all.

In the second he thinks it, he feels something change. The ropes have grown weaker, somehow. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice and so Loki strives to distract her.

"He will find me anywhere I go," Loki says, "Eventually, he will find me. And, even if he doesn’t…"

Wanda expects him to continue, so Loki says this instead, "He is a powerful man. But he is, in the end, just a man."

"What does he want, Loki?" Wanda asks, "With the stones, what does he plan to do with them?"

Loki feels the ropes could almost break, feels certain he has energy enough to keep chipping away at their magic and he wonders, again, if he should simply tell Wanda everything and then - 

_Don’t trust her._

"The stones will give him the power to do anything he wishes," Loki says, but it is obvious he is yet to say anything of true value.

Wanda will see through him, if she hasn’t already. Loki has a choice to make, he knows, except that he still isn’t sure whether fleeing would serve him better than staying here and playing at being an ally when he is, in fact, a prisoner.

"Loki, please," Wanda says, "These ropes really are just a precaution. Natasha will come back and we can negotiate a better deal for you, but I can’t do anything unless you give me something."

"There is nothing you can give _me_ ," Loki says, "None of you are powerful enough to stop him."

Suddenly, Loki feels in his hands ice and under it the ropes. The sensation is so foreign, so unwelcome, that it makes his stomach twist. He knows he can break the ropes now, he just doesn’t understand how he made it happen.

"Washroom," Loki says, struggles to say even that much, and for Wanda’s confused stare he repeats: "The washroom, where is it?!"

Wanda points to the door to his far left and Loki runs, thankful now for the cloak he was forced to wear. Once inside he stumbles, nearly falls on his way to the mirror. There, reflected so plainly in the mirrored surface, is the face of the savage monsters sung about in lullabies and told about in stories meant to titillate and frighten those who heard them.

And now, somehow, this body has produced ice. From these hands, even as bound as they are with the dreadful binding ropes, the foul magic of the Jotnar has sprung forth. 

Loki looks in the mirror and he doesn’t know who he sees, doesn’t know _what_ he sees. 

_Monster._

_Look at yourself, look how foul you are, how worthless._

_She is powerful enough to kill you._

_Perhaps if you ask nicely, she will absolve you._

The sound of knocking rouses Loki from his desperate staring and the voice of Wanda breaks through:

"Loki, is everything alright?"

He could laugh. Of course it isn’t. It hasn’t been for a long time now. Ignoring the vicious voices, Loki stares into these unfamiliar red eyes and he knows that, regardless of all else, he has yet another choice to make.

Does he break the ropes or does he not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the radiant @wnnbdarklord <3 <3 <3


	7. The War I Remember

Back when Midgard was void of technology, before even their steam powered trains and vehicles had begun to run their rounds and villages develop into larger cities, Loki had visited a small village in the north of Norway.

Though it isn’t entirely unusual for Asgardians to travel across realms it is typically done in groups and approved beforehand by the Allfather. Therefore, Loki’s request for travel is met with some apprehension by the Watcher.

"Why go alone, Prince Loki? Should something happen…"

"Nothing will happen," Loki says, "I merely wish to explore, on my own. You know how Thor can be and I’d rather have a quiet few days."

"I see," Heimdall says, though he can barely hide his thoughts from Loki as much as he tries.

Heimdall doesn’t like him, Loki can tell as much, even if the man’s expression hardly ever changes. It is in the way Heimdall speaks to him, as if Loki is not a prince, as if he’s not above him in rank, and as if everything he does should be met with unease and endless questioning.

"I’m _ordering_ you to open the Bifrost," Loki says, imbues as much princely confidence as he possibly can into his words, and yet still moments pass before Heimdall finally yields.

"Take care on your journey, Prince Loki," Heimdall says, to which Loki gives him an entirely pleasant smile.

"Any worry I may feel is soothed by your watchful eyes."

The Bifrost opens and Loki lands in a forest near a small village where he promptly sets up camp.

The whole of it consists of a hemp tent and covers to sleep on while the rest will come from the forest. Even for a prince, and one used to luxury, Loki finds a certain joy in making things himself and using what’s around him. Strangely resistant to cold, Loki nevertheless makes certain that there is kindling there for him when he returns.

Despite Heimdall’s queries and his judgment, it truly is peace that Loki seeks here. Peace and quiet, to be more precise. Lately, Loki has found that the distance he feels from his family has grown while Thor’s position as the first son has only been amplified by the shrinking time until his coronation. Emboldened by this, Thor has become quite a force to be around, some of his lesser qualities merely amplified.

Loki loves his brother, but he knows well what Thor is like and so he knows that Thor isn’t ready, and that Thor may never be ready, for a thing as delicate as ruling a kingdom. Brash and oftentimes overly impulsive, Thor seems to only strive for victory regardless of the path he takes to get it.

On some small level, Loki understands. After all, he too finds pleasure in victory and delights sometimes in his superiority. And yet, were Thor to take the throne as he is, unable to properly hide either his greater desires or his legendary rage, Loki fears their kingdom might crumble under such childish rule.

It shouldn’t matter to him, Loki knows, as there is little he can do to persuade their father otherwise. He ponders on this issue often and it has begun to weigh on him. Suddenly feeling stifled by the stillness of the forest and unable to calm or center his thoughts, Loki decides to take a walk instead.

The nearest village is not far from where he set up camp. Barely an hour passes before he reaches its gates through which he walks with a carefully constructed glamour and a precisely spun story. Once inside, Loki makes for the marketplace as he can already smell the dried meats from where he is. Even for the small number of villagers nobody pays much attention to him nor sees through his skilled glamour.

Except for one person, that is.

A gray old woman spots him as he spots her. They are both perusing the marketplace for the best deals on dried meats and Loki offers her a polite smile but the woman keeps staring and staring far past the point of comfort. Frowning, Loki picks up his paid for food and makes his way back to the forest, thinking he might somehow be attracting unwanted attention. When he exits the village and is far enough away, he feels for his magic and the glamour he has conjured up but there seems to be nothing at all amiss.

Perhaps the woman is simply mad, Loki thinks, though he walks back to the campsite anyway.

There, he finds the woman waiting for him. Startled, Loki freezes at the sight, wondering how it is possible for this old Midgardian woman to be faster than him or, for that matter, for her to know where he set up camp.

"I know who you are, Loki of Asgard."

"I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean," Loki says, "My name is Sindri –"

"You have many names, I know," the woman insists, "But that's no matter. How about we talk over a nice meal?"

"Pardon?"

"The meat," the woman says, pointing to the food Loki is holding, "Is it not customary, even in Asgard, to offer your guests a meal and a drink?"

"You’re hardly a guest," Loki says, irritated, "You’re an intruder. Who are you?"

"I’m just an old woman," the old woman says, "Do your eyes not work?"

"My eyes work well enough to tell you’re not just any old woman," Loki says, drops the bag of meat near a fallen tree trunk, "I demand you tell me your name."

"You demand?" the woman echoes, chuckles, "And if I refuse to tell you my name, what is it that you will do?"

Loki has a few ideas, spurred on by the arrogant behavior of this intruder. But the irritated feelings ebb, as they often did back then, into curiosity.

"Very well," Loki says, "Please, have a seat. I’ll be back shortly."

Once he’s gathered what he needs to prepare the dried meat, Loki exits his tent and finds the woman sitting comfortably upon the fallen tree trunk. She’s almost unnaturally still, gazing down onto the snowy ground, seemingly ignoring him.

Strange woman, Loki muses. If she knows his name, Loki thinks, as he moves to place the gathered wood within the fire pit, she must be alien to this planet. Or else, since the Midgardians have some knowledge of them, she may simply be an insane believer who accidentally stumbled upon the real Loki.

Though that doesn’t explain how she got here so fast.

When the fire begins to burn well enough, Loki picks up the meat and moves to sit on the other side of the fire, preparing their modest meal. For all the time he takes to tear down the meat into smaller sizes, the woman doesn’t speak.

When they eat, she is still silent. Only when Loki brings her a drink, ale he’d taken with him in case he found the chance to try it and see if he disliked it any less, and a canteen of stronger Asgardian liquor for himself, does the woman finally speak.

"Now that we’ve had a proper meal, we can have a proper conversation," she says, her voice raspy, "Will you listen, Loki of Asgard?"

"I don’t see why not," Loki says, smiling pleasantly at this interlocutor of his.

"It is well to see your curious nature shine so bright," the woman says, sounding strangely pleased, "It might be helpful to have such a thing between us, after what I’m about to tell you."

"Ah, how terribly ominous," Loki comments lightly, "Consider my curiosity piqued ever more."

"Asgard is steeped in the culture of war," the woman begins, but just as Loki’s about to interrupt, she says, "I know you know this, Loki. But I fear you do not fully realize what it means to be born to such darkness."

"I assume you have a point to make?" Loki asks, "Because, if not, I fear I may be wasting my time."

"You have time enough," the woman says, "For now, at least. Listen to me, Loki of Asgard, and you may yet learn."

Loki does listen. This woman may simply be mad, but Loki has ever enjoyed a good story, especially when his mind needed a distraction.

"I was born a long time ago," the woman says, "Even back then peace was something of a rarity. There was always a war somewhere, battles spoken of in hushed whispers under the light of a fire, soldiers coming back from many distant places, forever haunted by what they'd seen. I was fortunate, however, not to have experienced such things as a child. I was able to lead a peaceful life. My mother built our home far away from everyone else where there was nothing at all to threaten our safety. We were surrounded by a forest, a giant stone wall erected around the property by someone who lived there long before us. Inside it there was a meadow, a fertile ground to grow food and a myriad of trees already planted, sure to bear fruit. There was fresh water just at the edges of the north side of the property where the stone wall crossed an underground spring. We wanted for nothing, my mother and I."

The woman stops, staring at the fire, "One day, we were visited by a man. He asked for entry into the garden, begged for it, assured us he meant us no harm. He was injured, you see, and he needed shelter. My mother was much too kind to refuse him."

Loki expects what she will say next so he isn't surprised when the woman tells him of the man's true intentions. He'd heard this story before, after all, though he allows the woman to continue.

"The war had ravaged the land outside of our garden. He didn't simply want our help; he wanted our property for himself. His soldiers were starving, he said, and he would fight for them until his last dying breath."

"Did he?" Loki asks, following the woman's stare as she glances away from the fire and towards the forest.

"Yes," she says, "Of course he did. Our garden was destroyed that day and it was then I understood what desperation will lead one to do. However, it was only later I would learn of hatred and greed and what it means to take a life for one's own sake."

"War makes criminals of us all, Loki," the woman says, "It takes and takes until there’s nothing left."

"Indeed," Loki says, "I understood this story the same way, the first time I heard it. It was told somewhat differently but the end is the same. Nevertheless, it's just a story, and a terribly simplistic one at that."

The woman goes back to staring at the fire. Loki is somewhat tempted to wave his hand before her eyes just to see if she's fallen asleep, but then he decides on a different approach.

"I must say, I did enjoy you putting yourself as a character within the story," Loki says, thinking a compliment would achieve some sort of a response, and it does.

The woman glances at him, a subtle thing really, but she remains quiet. Loki gets the sense that she is expecting something of him though he knows not what.

So, he offers, "I sometimes do that too. I rather like to imagine myself as a warrior of old, or even a beast of some sort like the mighty wolf Fenrir. I even once imagined myself a wise old man living in a giant stone fortress, tricking people into falling for my traps. My brother liked that one, said he could see it in perfect clarity, which is something of an oddity as my brother prefers to talk instead of think but –"

"Ah," Loki amends, "It seems I've begun to ramble."

"That's quite alright," the woman says, looking up from the fire, "I'm glad to hear you're so fond of telling stories."

"Well," Loki says, "My brother tells them better, or so everyone says, but I don't really agree. I believe I understand the structure of stories better and my diction is far superior."

"I see," the woman remarks with a smile, "Tell me then, Loki, do you know how stories come to be?"

"Mostly oral tradition for the truly old ones," Loki says, "Or else from old etchings or drawings. I've been studying old Asgardian illustrated manuscripts recently and I found them quite fascinating."

"Studious as well as curious," the woman remarks, "Tell me, where do you think this story that we've both been told has come from?"

"Thor said our father told him this story when he was a child," Loki says, frowns, "His father, our grandfather, told it to him. Our version of the story involved the Jotnar and the long war," Loki pauses, noticing the woman's expression change ever so slightly.

"You know of the Jotnar?" he asks, "I suppose you would, since you seem to know of Asgard as well."

The thought does occur to him, but is immediately squashed down. If this woman were a Jotun he wouldn't still be sitting here, unharmed, engaged in conversation. Jotnar are likely unable to converse at this level, besides, so it stands to reason the woman might just be familiar with them. She is quite old, after all, she said so herself, so she must know of many things.

"I always thought the story is a kind of myth," Loki offers, "Especially now, hearing you tell it as well. There is nothing in our history books to confirm it as a true event, either."

"I suppose there wouldn't be," the woman agrees, "You said your father told this story to your brother. Your brother is the one who told it to you, yes?"

Loki can hardly hide the shadow that falls over his expression.

"Our father," he wants to say a myriad of things. His father is a busy man, he spends more time with Thor because he is his firstborn. Perhaps when Thor was told this story Loki was simply elsewhere, most likely with his mother, practicing spells.

But what he says instead is this, "He's always preferred Thor over me, I think."

Damn it. He doesn’t know why he's telling her this, why he suddenly feels so full to the brim with aching sadness. The woman regards him gently, or at least so it appears, her eyes bright and poised entirely on him now instead of the bright fire.

"Say," the woman says, her voice raspy and deep, "what do _you_ know of the Jotnar, Loki?"

"I… why do you ask?"

The woman shrugs, "It's just a simple question. If you don't want to answer it you don't have to."

Why shouldn't he? Loki thinks to himself. The mere mention of the Jotnar no longer causes him to cower like a scared little child and if this woman wants to know what he thinks then he will tell her.

Steeling himself with chin held high, Loki says, "I know Asgard has been in a war with them. I know that they're monsters. There are stories about them too. They're described as evil creatures with red eyes that snatch children away at night. I was always terrified of them but my mother told me sometimes stories must frighten us in order to teach us."

Something shifts in the woman's expression, "Fear does teach us many things. Not always the right ones."

The woman grows silent, her gaze falling back down onto the burning fire. Loki observes her hunched shoulders, her old spotted hands. Most of her is covered by a thick blanket of fur placed against her shoulders, falling over a woolen dress. What little of her skin he can see is peppered in scars, some small, some large, all of them old.

"You must have fought many battles in your long life," Loki says, feeling suddenly foolish, "I… I’ve been on quests. I’ve fought, but I’ve never –"

"I’ve been in many wars," the woman says, "I’ve seen the wheel spin its rounds many times. When I close my eyes all I see is red and all I hear are screams of those long gone. Glory, Loki, true glory, will never be found upon the corpses of others."

"Does it not depend on the corpses?" Loki asks, perhaps callously, "If one builds something over the ashes of those who meant to stifle their greatness then isn't that a noble and heroic act?"

"You could say that," the woman allows, "It certainly depends. Is the one you killed the one who meant to kill you first? Are you a warrior because you know little is achieved in this world without violence? Or else, is your greatness built on lies? Perhaps you are the one who invited violence and death upon your home."

Somewhat annoyed, Loki asks, "Are you implying Asgard is the latter?"

"I am indeed," the woman says, "Asgard's conflict with Jotunheim and the consequences of the long war continue to spread, like cracks, etching themselves deeply into the very roots of Yggdrasil."

Damn this woman, Loki thinks. She doesn't appear to be a Jotun but she hasn't the aura of an Asgardian either. Perhaps she simply participated in the war. Perhaps she is from one of the other realms who do know of Yggdrasil and its power.

"Regardless, Jotnar are beasts," Loki says, "Even if they aren't evil creatures who prey on Asgardian children, killing them is the same as killing an animal. Asgard brought true glory to us by ridding the realms of their parasitic life."

"I suppose it’s a matter of perspective," the woman says, and Loki thinks he’s probably imagining that she looks disappointed with him, "And perspectives can be altered in every which way. Beings who feel themselves wholly stronger than others in respect of their beliefs may be swayed by arguments that reach deep to their fears."

"Asgard is not a place of weak-willed people," Loki defends, "And we are not so fragile that our fears rule us. We are warriors. We are honorable. Many among us have fought for us to build what we have now."

"Of course," the woman says, "You believe there is honor in death, glory even. You think yourself above others. That is what it means to live in a culture of war, Loki. You may not see it now, but one day you will. I only hope it doesn’t come too late."

"I wonder now," Loki says, "Why speak of this to me? How did you even know to find me here? I’ve listened to you; surely I deserve to know who you are."

"My name is Isa," the woman says, "I found you by accident, truly. Some might say it was the Norns that willed it so we’d meet. As for why you,"

Isa stops to rummage through her bag. Her old hands shake as she grips a book of some sort, made with tough leather with deeply etched carvings. Loki recognizes them and immediately stands up, grabs for his weapon.

"Where did you get that?"

Isa simply shrugs.

"This place has been home to many. The stories people have told and things they believe in have deep roots. This book has been left here long ago by the Jotnar."

"They’ve been here?" Loki asks, wondering how it is that he is not standing among ruins, how it is that the people here are even still here.

"Long ago, as I said," Isa replies, holds the book out, "Please, take it. You may not want it now, nor may you see much value in it, but I wish for you to have it."

Loki vanishes his dagger and takes the book, rolls it in his hands. It doesn’t seem enchanted or particularly well made, and it is thin, less than a hundred pages perhaps.

"Not much is left of their writings, I’ve been told," Isa says, "So I urge you to keep it safe."

"Why?" Loki asks, stares into the book as if it could give him answers too, "Why give this to me?"

"You are not like them, Loki. You may one day need it," Isa says, "Ah, forgive this foolish woman her hope, won’t you?"

Within the seconds that it takes for Loki to look up from his transfixed staring, the old woman is gone. Loki has never seen her again after that, though he did keep the book safe. On more than one occasion, he also read through it. At first it felt somehow wrong that he should indulge his curiosity, and, in a way, it almost felt like treason, but Loki rarely rejects knowledge even if it seems useless on the surface.

There were things in there he was intrigued by, besides, such as the language construction of the Jotnar and even a couple of their own fables and poems struck his fancy. These writings were as different from Asgardian writings about the Jotnar as summer is to winter. At the time, Loki had simply assumed that, of course, the Jotnar would see themselves in a light altogether their own, regardless of the reality of their nature. Where there might have been doubt it had been swiftly crushed by the weight of Asgardian culture against this thin little book.

How the wheel of fate turns, Loki thinks as he averts his eyes from the mirrored image, that he would only now fully understand the conversation he’d had so long ago.

_"Forgive this foolish woman her hope, won’t you?"_

Wanda's knocking grows louder and more insistent with each passing second Loki takes to make his decision. By the time the knocking is replaced by a myriad of pleas to tell her what’s wrong and if there’s anything she can do to help, Loki has relocated from the mirror to the cold floor of the bathroom.

At least, he assumes the tiles would be cold if he were not what he is. The cloak feels heavy around him so he shakes it off, manages to just about get rid of it, only to regret it instantly. The blue is more visible now, though the more he looks at it the more he sees that it’s not just a plain blue.

There’s a gray sheen over his skin, and under it there are shades of bluish gray that seem to shift with his movement and the light. It reminds him of Jotunheim’s ice and its frozen rocks, as if the Frost Giants living there were cast from them.

Perhaps they were, not that Loki would know. How a book of poetry could help him now, he doesn’t know. How he had spent his whole life in the dark about his own nature when for that very nature he’d ironically been spared his birthright, no, he doesn’t know how to make sense of that either.

_"I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day. Bring about an alliance, bring about permanent peace... through you."_

The moment those words echo in his mind, the ice around his hands grows and he feels the rope break as a growl erupts from his lips. Standing up, Loki sees nothing now but red, hears nothing but the rushing of blood in his ears, and soon he is surrounded entirely by ice.

_"Your birthright was to die."_

The doors, the cabinets, the basin, the floor, all of it becomes encased in ice and he stands there, in the middle of it, in contrast feeling endless fire burning within him. Loki yells and he growls and he breaks whatever he can as he breaks through the ice and new ice grows in its place.

_"Know that when we fought each other in the past, I did so with a glimmer of hope that my brother was still in there somewhere."_

There’s something inside of him now raging worse than before, stuck in this small room, in this small apartment, on this small planet.

_"That hope no longer exists to protect you."_

If only he could burst apart, disappear, like he feels he will. His wild beating heart begins its dance anew and his lungs heave as his throat expels yet more wordless screams. For his trashing and the ice forming with no clear direction he doesn’t see her at first, but when the blinding light strikes him he cowers, his eyes shut against the burning.

_"You betray me, and I will kill you."_

Low and lower still he falls, to his knees and then to his hands, placed on ice, as he attempts to huddle into himself for the fear that he will otherwise come undone. He doesn’t feel it at first, but then something is placed on his shoulders and the thing moves, up and down his shoulder blades it goes and a voice breaks through.

"Loki, come on, get up, please."

The thing upon his shoulders shivers and he feels now that it is some kind of fabric encased over a hand. The hand keeps moving in soothing circular motions and he thinks to grab it, move it away from his cursed skin.

But he doesn’t.

His jaw aches, he can feel it now, and in a moment more in which he attempts to take a deep breath he sees his Jotun skin gashed and torn, his arms filled with deep cuts from which oozes something that must be blood.

He understands then why he feels so faint, but it is as though he’s observing someone else, something else. As if the gashes are not on him, as if the cuts were made on wood or some other surface.

"Loki, please…"

That’s Wanda’s voice, he’s somewhat certain. The other voices that echo around him so often are quiet now, of all times. He’s been left alone even by them, these bodiless entities, and so why hasn’t that woman left as well?

Why does she insist upon this? What does she stand to gain?

_She means to use you._

_It’s information she values, not you._

_It’s your power she needs, not you._

"Ah, there you are."

"What?" he hears Wanda again, "Loki, what’s wrong? Talk to me."

He doesn’t know where he gets the courage to look up from the mangled arms below him, but he does. His hair is in the way, but he sees Wanda there, by his side. She appears worried, though Loki has not a trace of doubt in his mind now that she is lying to him.

"What a wonderful actress you are," he says, shoots her a glare which finally makes her move her damn hand away from him, "How well you’ve been taught."

She moves away so they both have space to get up. Loki sneers at the ice around him, the evidence of his nature openly displayed, and he sneers at her too, while she keeps standing there, looking at him with insufferable sympathy.

"I’m tired of being used," Loki says, "I need no kind words from you and no sympathy to move me. All I want is…"

"What? What is it? Loki, talk to me, we can figure this out…"

Her hands are up, as if she means to placate a wild beast. And well enough, Loki thinks. She should be scared, they all should be, even if he’s hardly the biggest threat they will face.

"Loki, please…"

"Goodbye, Wanda."

***

When Loki opens his eyes he’s there again, in that place that has of late become so familiar. The winds of Helheim roar and the dust around him rises like the dead. Before him there is nothing at all but gray rocky ground stretching as far as he can see under the dark skies above, until something else appears beyond the dust, just a little bit farther from where he’s standing.

A shadow, at first, and for a second Loki thinks it’s _her_ but when next he blinks he sees him.

"Have you enjoyed your time as king, my son?"

"I’m not your son!" Loki can only think to protest as he swiftly turns around, "And I’m leaving."

How he’ll achieve such a feat he knows not, but Loki fully intends to try. This time, however, he doesn’t even so much as flicker. He can feel his magic is present, can feel no bonds placed upon it, and yet he cannot go anywhere. When he looks down on his arms he sees no wounds, no blood and his skin colored pink the way it used to be.

"Loki," he hears him say, "Turn around, look at me."

Loki cannot, surely he knows this.

"Turn around," Odin repeats, this time in that voice that so often echoes around him alongside others.

Once more he says it, and Loki feels his body turning almost against his will. At first he tries to keep his eyes shut but that strikes him as profoundly cowardly and so he opens them. What he sees steals his breath, though he strives not to make it so apparent, for Odin has lost the glory of a king, the shine that seemed to always have been there around him, the same one that used to accompany Thor.

Now there is little else but gray, little else but the decaying body of a man who once was king.

"This must please you," Odin says, gestures at his decaying flesh, "I imagine this is what you wished would happen, if only not by your hand."

"I… I did not want this," Loki says, frowns as his eyes fill with tears, "I didn’t. I –"

"There’s hardly anywhere else less suitable to lie than here, in Hel itself, my son," Odin warns him and as he does so Loki hears the dreadful croaking sounds.

Odin’s ravens fly over them, coming closer and closer until they land on his shoulders. The man pets them both, and Loki tries once more to escape. Perhaps he imagines it, but he sees in Odin’s one eye a certain joy when he fails.

"I deserve some of your time, do I not?" Odin says, "For all the time you stole from me."

Loki growls, "You don’t deserve anything!" he yells, though the sound of it is as brittle as the dust around them, "You _don’t_ … I _owe_ you nothing."

"You owe me plenty, son," Odin says, "Ah, how cruel children can be," he coos, scratches under Huginn’s beak, "I have no means to keep you here for long but until then you have no other choice but to listen."

Loki scoffs, "I can _choose_ not to listen," he says, puts his hands against his ears in an entirely childish gesture.

He imagines Odin might have rolled his eyes if he weren’t so uptight, but then he hears his voice repeat the same thing to him in his head. Loki clutches his ears tighter and closes his eyes on foolish instinct alone.

"You can’t hide from this, Loki," Odin says, in his head and all at once, "You understand that there is no escaping your fate despite your foolish attempts. Listen, Loki, and listen well!"

Loki shakes his head, keeps his eyes closed and ears covered. But, the safety this offers him is of little worth when he feels Odin’s voice creep back into his mind, covering over his very thoughts.

"The Titan is closer to you than you think," Odin says, "Asgard is the shield of this realm, but it will fall if it remains divided."

Suddenly feeling awfully weak, Loki’s hands fall by his sides as his gaze finds the Allfather’s decaying body has all but turned into dust. His ravens croak at him, their beaks open as their posture suggests either aggression or urgency.

What’s left of the Great Allfather says, "Asgard is your home, Loki. You’ve taken to govern it twice now only to run. Do you wish to see our kingdom fall?"

"Asgard is Thor’s home," Loki says, feeling the sting of those bitter words, "The people will flock to him, their one true leader. There is no need for me to be there."

"There is great need for your power now, Loki," Odin says, "And there is great need for you to meet your fate. Otherwise your life will forever be sullied by the pathetic ruin of your cowardice and even if the wheel remains unbroken you will only end up here, with me."

Loki grits his teeth, feels the aching pull in his jaw at this nameless fire inside him while the pulling void of Helheim calling to him only serves to make him shiver. It’s a feeling much like falling but before he can truly comprehend it, one blink away, and he is no longer there.

Outside, the smell of New York’s busy streets assaults his senses and its endless noise follows. Disoriented and still bleeding, Loki doesn’t notice him at first. Only when he manages to clear his blurry sight does a familiar hand enter his vision and the soothing voice of his main servant reaches his ears.

"Do you require assistance, my king?"

Loki does not respond nor does he take his outstretched hand. The main servant is here, though he can’t really be here. This must be a hallucination, Loki thinks wildly, brought on by the strain. He can feel sweat pouring from his forehead, his chest, and his hands. It mixes in with the blood but he barely feels the sting for his stunned staring.

And then, he finally sees it. His eyes, the monstrous red, see beyond the servant’s glamour, the boy’s eyes now a glowing gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fabulous @wnnbdarklord <3 <3 <3


End file.
